• Imaxown posted an update 8 years ago

    Story 2 from sexting erotic writer.

    “I love you.”

    Every woman likes to hear these words, but only a woman such as I is prone to hear them thus: growled into my ear by a man with his cock in me from the rear, me kneeling with my arse up, his hand in my hair to arch my back and lift my bum, his other hand gripping my belly, the better to pound me. These fabulous words thrilled me all the same and triggered my orgasm, the long tingling kind that starts deep and then builds and then fills the heart with sweetness, pure delight.

    Johnny savoured my moans and then pushed me down on the bed and finished in me, his belly slamming into my arse, filling me with his come.

    “No, Belle, I mean it. You know I do” he said as we lay gasping together, sweat-soaked, in that glorious intimate calm of aftersex.

    I knew he did. I had several guys I was seeing at the time and I was fond of all of them, of course. I’m a people person. But John was special for two reasons: he loved me, in the sense of wanting me to be his, exclusively. And he was also a ‘bad boy’.

    I hate crime but I love criminals and John thrilled me somehow, although he never spoke of his dark world and if he had I would have hated it. I love sex because I love joy and grace and fun. I have no gifts for darkness.

    “It’s Valentine’s Day tomorrow,” Johnny said. “Will you be my Valentine?”
    “I’d love you to be my Valentine, Johnny”, I breathed in his ear. “Thanks for asking me”.

    I kissed him softly and snuggled into his shoulder. His hand reached down to cup my bum and squeeze. I breathed faster.

    “Naah, Belle, I’m serious. I want you to love me, not everybody. You can have anything you want.”

    I laughed softly, kissing him again to take the sting out of my words.

    “You’ve had lots of mistresses, John. I know you love me and I cherish that, but you love me because I’m what I am; if I changed, you’d lose interest in me”.

    He pushed me down on the bed with his hands on my shoulders, his eyes burning.

    “No-one fucks like you, Belle, like you really mean it. But then you do it like that with someone else . . . .”

    I wanted him to understand, what I knew he couldn’t truly understand, although in his secret heart it delighted him – what being an escort means:

    “I do mean it. And it’s never the same, ever, with anyone. What we have is ours alone. But I can’t belong to you, John. I need to be free, I need to be open to everyone, I need to be who I am. And you want me to be what I am, free to give myself to anyone. Everyone.”

    Suddenly he smiled, and the darkness left his eyes.

    “A slut, you mean.”

    “Your slut. Your sexy Valentine”.

    I wrapped my legs around his waist, my wet cuntlips brushing his stiff cock, inviting; and the surge of joy as he entered me, that feeling always the same, always new, opening me into to that lovely golden space. I closed my eyes and he took me.

    Leaving, he left the money in an envelope on the hall table, as usual. I took it and stuffed it into the inside pocket of his coat as I kissed him goodbye. Then I put my arms around his neck and held him.

    “This one’s just for you, for us. I love what you do to me.”

    He broke my grip and looked puzzled.

    “You’re one in a million, Belle.” Then suddenly he smiled.

    “Tell you what . . . I’ll give you something special for Valentine’s Day. What would you like?”

    “I want to be your number one, John. But I want to know that you truly accept me as I am.”

    He paused in thought. Then he smiled. “You got it, Belle. I know what to give you.” He left with a sardonic grin.


    I had no time to wonder what he meant, for the next two days were busy. On Valentine’s Day I walked on the Embankment, heading for an assignation, a new client, a glow of happy anticipation. I didn’t see them until they had me by the shoulders and into a van, two ugly hard men. I was too shocked to cry out and then they pulled a hood over my head and pushed me onto the seat between them. As the van drove away they pushed me forward and cuffed my hands. I felt a breathless shocking stab of fear but then a strange excitement: cuffed, hooded, a stranger’s hand on the nape of my neck . . . But this was no play scenario. My mind was racing. Who? Who have I pissed off? And on Valentine’s Day . . . As if that mattered. They let me sit up

    “Where are you taking me?”

    No answer.

    The car stopped and they bundled me out, frog-marching me across tarmac, then concrete, then the clatter of a roller door lifting, and we were inside, cooler air against my face. The door went down again. I felt my hood being pulled off and I saw a dark echoing space. They propelled me towards a door in the wall. It was going to happen there. I felt terror. My breath stopped.

    Red and gold: the inner room was sumptuous, luxurious: tapestries, plush gilded furniture, and ottoman in crimson silk. A tall antique mirror. Champagne in a gilded bucket, gleaming ice. Fear sharpened my senses and I saw everything in a flash. The door slammed and I was alone.

    Not quite.

    “You must be Annabelle.”

    The voice was deep, silky, sumptuous, exotically accented.

    I looked around and saw him; he was very, very beautiful, black, tall, slim, majestic, a young Othello. David in ebony. Urbane, poised, and beneath that pure animal sex, warmth, male power.

    My captor watched me, amused, completely confident. He was offering me a glass of champagne.

    I struggled for composure.

    “You were expecting another kidnap victim, perhaps? And who the fuck might you be?”

    He laughed, delighted. “They told me you were special. They got that right.”

    I took the champagne and a drained it, my hand shaking. His accent. American? Carribbean? How should I be towards him I thought quickly? Snooty? Yes, snooty.

    “Perhaps you’d like to give me one good fucking reason why I shouldn’t call the cops when I get out of here.”

    He laughed again, and this time his charisma, his sheer sexiness, was so powerful that I found myself smiling at him, delighted, fear still but melting into excitement, into arousal.

    “Will this do?”

    He let the silken robe he was wearing open. He was naked and his cock erect: he was huge, stiff, perfection. I couldn’t believe how lovely his penis was. I was transfixed, mesmerized. I began to realise this was some kind of set-up but I couldn’t quite figure it out. I decided to play along.

    He let me look for a while and then spoke, calmly, with complete authority.

    “I want you to lie on the couch.”

    There was no menace in his voice, just an assumption of obedience to his command. He was stunningly attractive. Not obeying him did not occur to me and I did as he told me.

    I lay on the couch and lifted my knees slightly. My thighs seemed to open of their own accord for him. I wanted his cock so much I could hardly breathe.

    He looked at me, his eyes over my body his gaze a caress, a thrill. I moaned, my hips rolled. When is he going to take me? When? All I could think of was that cock of his, wanting him inside me.

    He gestured with a graceful hand. Obedient, I arched my hips and took my knickers down for him, slowly, my skirt lifting, feeling his eyes on me, loving his appreciation of my body and his complete power over me.

    He touched me then for the first time and I gasped as he parted my knees and then slowly licked and kissed his way along my thighs. As though completing a ritual he kissed me, first on the lips and then on the lips of my vagina. I lifted my legs onto his shoulders so that he could bury his tongue deep inside me. I ran my fingers through his short tight curls and lifted my head to watch him pleasure me, guiding him now with my hands as he sucked my clit slowly, gently, then harder and faster, his hands reaching up to fondle my breasts and my nipples, caressing and then squeezing and kneading me in rhythm with his probing teasing tongue until I came and came again, thrashing under him, moaning.

    He gave me a moment to recover. Then he knelt between my parted knees and smiled. Again the gesture of direction,command. I reached up and took that magnificent cock in my hand, then lifted my hips and guided him inside me. I was so soft and wet that a wriggle allowed his huge cock to slip inside me. I was full with him, impaled, gasping. He cupped his hands under my bum and lifted me and slammed himself into me, deep, hard. He made me wait and when I pleaded with him he slammed me again and again, each time driving me further into ecstasy. I braced my arms so that he could fuck me full force and he rode me harder, my breasts bouncing, nipples hard, his hands squeezing my arse. I lifted my head to watch his cock move in and out of me, the black shaft glistening as he plunged into me.

    “Do it . . . fuck me . . . come inside me.”

    He laughed again, and started to ride me in earnest, grabbing my hips and forcing my offered cunt down on his cock, deeper and harder each time. The orgasm came from the base of my spine and surged into my crotch and seemed to explode inside me. As though from a distance I could hear my own voice howling, then the pleasure took me, overcame me. Suddenly he pulled away from me and turned me over and I was still coming as he made me kneel and took me in the arse, parting my bumcheeksand slipping into me, lifting me with a hand under my crotch and then his fingers found my clit and I went wild and he came, my tight anus feeling every spasm.

    He was so tender with me afterwards. He sipped champagne and kissed me and murmured to me as I caressed him, telling me how wonderful it was, our time, our moment as one, the space we had been in together and in a sense, would always share, in that timeless world beyond the world.

    The he looked at me, as one looks at someone with whom one has made love and whom one will never see again. I know that look. What more is there to say? This is our life.

    He smiled, and was gone. I watched him go and then closed my eyes for a moment and when I opened them again Johnny was there, leaning against the door, looking down at me, smiling at me, savouring my sweaty well-fucked nakedness.

    “Well? I kept my promise. Did you like it?”

    “Just what I always wanted, John. I’m the happiest Valentine in London.”

    “I can see that,” he smiled. And Valentine’s Night has only started.”

    He was right about that too.

    • I really enjoyed that. If John really loves Belle, Belle as she is, free to be who she is, then surely her orgasms, regardless of how or with whom she achieves them, are in many respects, “love letters” to him.

      • Yes love letters !!
        He understands that she has to be herself completely. Her pleasure is his. Not ownership but mutual passion with or without him.
        Glad you enjoyed it. So did I when sent to me.