Unique. The only way to describe her. She had invented herself to be arresting. She liked stopping traffic. She was not quite 5’ 5”. This meant that in her favorite stilettos—stilettos, only—she was 5-9, maybe 5-10. She weighed a compact 140 lbs—“thick,” as the youngsters put it. But this was all muscle—she was cut—sculpted; not overly done. She traded on her contrasts: her skin was the color of polished ebony—she called herself after her color: “Sydian.” (Pronounced “Sid-jaan”—just plain “Syd” for short) She favored cobalt lenses; and for added effect she offset the entire look with very short twists the color of winter wheat. Her perfect face was all the elegance Africa contained; there was no mistaking that from the high cheekbones and the wide, flaring nostrils to the thick sensuous lips she kept lacquered like a work of Chinese art. She was drama without the theatrics; she didn’t like theatrics. Either she did, or she didn’t. The 38s were sculpted too—the best money could buy, with nipples that bore holes in almost everything she wore. Even covered they gave off heat to any body she came in contact with. The waist was a tight, flat 30, graced by a pair of 36 inch hips. She was a special package—in more ways than one.
She was intelligent, in the extreme. The only way she could have gotten this far. A professional woman, nine to five. She lived comfortably. She was independent—again, in the extreme. No one owned her; though there were a few who wished she owned them.
Her dress was stylish and always right for the occasion. The occasions she preferred were those that allowed her to wear her clothing short and tight, and many times in leather. She hated panties. But then again, that was because of her “special-ness”—she was hung. Something she never tried to hide; a fact some would say she flaunted. Oh no, she wasn’t about to hide that! On the occasions she preferred; in the special places she preferred, she wore her ten, thick inches strapped to her thigh, just barely below the top of her seamed stockings—sometimes nestled in it; held in place by an elastic band that moved with her and discretely exposed her as if it were nothing more than a clit—a very large clit, perhaps, but a clit nonetheless….
She loved being on display….On these occasions she meant to be seen by any and everyone who was attractive and of a similar persuasion—male, female, and otherwise. She was hot; she knew she was hot. And it was a heat she needed to share.
She glided through the doors of her favorite establishment, the long, pale blue duster billowing behind her. The maitre d’ greeted her, smiled knowingly and led her to her booth, placed his hands to her shoulders for her wrap. Upscale. Peopled by people like her; all attractive in their way; most quite interesting; all omni-sexual. As she slid from the duster, it became quite clear to anyone observing—it was clear to her—that tonight, sexually, she was extremely dangerous. She loved being dangerous; being the dangerous one.
The coat fell away from her arms and the most evident manifestation of her dangerous nature was obvious. The few people who took note, did so discretely, but with great intensity and detail. On this warm spring night, all of that body was poured into the tightest, shortest cobalt knit dress imaginable; a piece only long enough to keep some of her admirers guessing, and then not for too long. It was a turtleneck sans sleeves, with a back that plunged to the crack of her ass and literally gripped its fullness. Each time she dressed, she grew fonder of the clichés concerning this “asset.” Tonight, dressing was a little more difficult than normal. The narcissist in her got the better of her as she slid into the dress; she could hardly get it over her beautiful, black, hard, thick cock, and then strap it into to place and tuck it into her stocking band. She always found herself exciting.
They found her exciting too. She slid into the booth, and her eyes adjusted to the room….The apple martini was already there; she had been anticipated. She glanced over the top of the menu and scanned the room; many of the regulars; meet and greet later….Her eyes fell on the bar—“hello”—he was new, and hard to place. Like the others, well-dressed, but down-played. Attractive? In his way. Professional…. international, maybe? The cut was entirely Italian; muted with flecks of color. The way the clothes draped the body, it was clear that there was a body—in all probability, a nice body—underneath. The hair and beard were closely cropped black and silver dustings. But, he didn’t look that old. They wreathed a mahogany face with strong matching hands. He wasn’t that tall—an inch or two taller than she in her stocking feet. She liked that. She liked looking down on her “prey” from the perch the heel afforded. (“Ah, heels,” she thought.) He wasn’t shy, either. The loose, full-cut, tailored slacks left nothing to her imagination, or to anyone else’s who took the time to be observant. When he moved—leaning back against the bar, glancing up at the TV—it was clear he was a “pony-boy”—hung like a horse. She loved watching, and being watched.
Her cock twitched and a pearl of precum lodged itself between her thigh and stocking. “Mmmmm,” she thought, “what a way to fuck up a pair of expensive hose.” “How to do this….”
She was born to heels. She crossed the room almost imperceptibly. He wasn’t the type to believe that anything would come his way that he didn’t go after, so he hardly noticed when she ended up at his back, her beautiful black back to him, framed in blue….She had gotten a good look at all that meat as she approached—he was huge—and she was growing. Even though she was strapped, her cock had swollen and extended down her thigh. One drop now had the consistency of a minor leak—lighting and positioning helped….
She leaned back slightly. The wheat colored twists broke the plane of his space without his noticing. She was close enough for him to catch her fragrance and her hot, husky whisper. “I’m buying whatever….”—the pause—long enough to make anyone pregnant—“you’re drinking.” He turned. Caught that exquisite noir face, the contrast of lenses and twists, and his tongue stuck in his throat. She had leaned forward against the bar, that magnificent ass protruding ever so slightly, her naked back exposed, her head tilted at him.
He hadn’t had time to take in all of her. A step back. She noticed. A quick, subtle, but thorough appraisal. And she noticed. The pants tented a bit more, and maybe there was a bead of moisture. She played her strong suit—the bitch. “I’d like to be the cat that got that tongue; and a few other things,” she smirked as she dropped her eyes to his crotch. “A drink, beautiful,” she murmured, “a drink.” She pivoted on her heels to face him and he caught the thickness of her thighs.
“I hate eating alone….”
“I lie,” she continued, “I don’t hate eating alone. Only when the company is interesting.” He had watched her cross the floor. Smooth; fluid strides, her hips swayed like water. The long, powerful legs ate up distance… “eat?” Clearly, she liked to “eat”—many things, including her men….
The hips swayed, the stilettos clicked. She pivoted when she realized that he wasn’t at her side. She looked at him, took him all in, licked her enameled lips, then smiled wickedly and said, “You are coming, aren’t you?” Rolling off her lips, “coming” sounded too much like “cumming.” He was leaking like a faucet, and the tightness of the hem of her dress only emphasized her hardness. His gait was measured…he never hurried—tonight, as hard as his cock was, how could he? She had made it into an 11+ inch splint just by whispering in his ear, gazing at him, crossing the room. He could only muster a dignified limp as he moved to the table, the stain of precum widening on his trouser leg.
She grinned—beautiful set of teeth; well suited to those thick scarlet lips—she missed nothing—“Did I do that?” Her eyes locked on the outline of that huge cock. Again, uncharacteristically, he was at a loss for words. In many ways, he couldn’t figure out what he was doing here. He had just come in from out of town. The hotel was round the corner, and the place was “recommended.” All right…the recommendation wasn’t from the most commendable of his associates—actually it had come from his brother, an aficionado of the wild and seamy and the sexually indecipherable, all on the upscale. He was his brother’s only confidant in the family—the only one to whom his brother would openly voice his homosexuality—the only one who would tease him about “letting loose” and letting a “girl” show him how that meat ought to be handled. His brother had assured him that it was a first class spot—he wouldn’t be hassled or harassed—he might be eyeballed however—the “family curse” could be hard to hide. Hard to hide, indeed. So here he was, with a “girl”—with her. And his cock was about to tear through his pant; which, by the way were already fucked up….
As she eyed the menu, her hand trailed from the juncture of his crotch down the massive ridge that had become his cock. The lacquered nails came to rest on the spot where his cock head was pooling in his pants. Abstractly, she said “What I want isn’t on the menu….” He shuddered; shivered a bit as his cock strained even more. She squeezed, gently, just to make him leak more—to chart his reaction…. She leaned closer, pushing the fabric of her turtleneck into the valley of her tits, exposing the huge nipples. Her breath was hot on the lobe of his ear: “But what I want is here at the table,” squeezing that horsecock again….
Then placing his hand on her thigh, “And I’ve got something for you too, Daddi….” “Time to go….”