tagExhibitionist & VoyeurAmsterdam Ch. 02

Amsterdam Ch. 02


The reality is that I wouldn't have gone back to your hotel room. Not then.

If I were sitting in a bar, in a pub, with you, and that atmosphere, the reality is that nothing on this whole earth would stop me from fucking you, letting you fuck me, there and then. Nothing. I know me and I know that. I know exactly what would happen because I've thought about it a million times, and thinking of it now I can feel my breath quickening as I come back, sit down, take a swill of my drink so big it's now empty, and, trying to control that breathing, stare right on up at you.

Not the club, but the thickness of the air, the dense lusty intense scent of that moment, encompasses us, sweeps us up, wraps us up, swathes and bathes us in a cloak of invisibility. The base theatrical scene on the stage, sure it's a backdrop, but, babe, you know what? I don't notice shit, don't care, when you lean on down and kiss me, on that stool, standing in front of me; nothing, nothing else exists. I close my eyes. There's a vague music wafting in the background. Some weird incongruous dance trance Euro pop with a female voice in there somewhere and a beat that somehow melds with the brittle moaning, occasional grunting that waves across from the actors across the room, and the gentler sighs from the more participating members of the elite audience.

But this is all mere frosting. You lean your forehead against mine, yes, I can feel it moving, rolling slightly, all the time your eyes right-right in mine. Deep. Fallen. And falling. And your one hand goes back on down to where it's been, no fucking pretence, goes back to where it was, three damn fingers just in and out of me, your eyes in mine. Briefly flitting past those lips, you smooth your whole damn face against mine, sliding it around, across those cheeks. You kiss those lips, that neck, just rolling around, fucking away with that hand, not fast - deliberate. Whatever I'm wearing, I'm not, as you pull out those breasts, which you know, you do, and, your eyes closed, you suck and bite on them like nourishment. No hands except to steady whichever of them you are focused on at one point, while the other lies aching for you to just pay it some attention. Please.

I want you to fuck me. That's it, that's all. At this point that's everything, you. Standing in front of me, you move closer in, and the cloth of your trousers brushes across the open lips of me. The hand from inside comes out as you pull me slightly closer to you, possessive, and though I don't see what's about to go into me, your other hand bumps firmly against my cunt as you unfasten yourself, and guide your cock, briefly mine, round the wetness of me. Fuck, you. This I whisper. Fuck, just fuck, I sigh, and I bite on my lower lip as, in the cloying, humid, stickiness of that club, to the sounds of others fucking, you, forehead once again on mine, looking right into those goddamn bright blue wide-open eyes, push right on into me and stop, just there, one hand on the back of my neck.

Is that a moan or a sigh, I don't know, but I make it now, as I think of this, you, I do. Really, I do.

Back against the bar, your back to the club, you, looking right at me, fuck me with a deliberation and firmness that has my eyes closed, half open, whatever. I feel numbed and more alive than in forever, and, my arms tight around you, I stroke the back of your neck, the nape, casual, like it's mine. And it is. The barstool angle so perfect, your cock hits that damn pearl, just so nice, you, and I feel a build up of honey starting from the base of my spine. Squeezed, it bursts on out, and that thick cock of yours, pleased by the coaxing of those muscles, hell, Babe, it smiles right on back, and cums in thrusts that keep those arms, so wrapped around you, tighter still.

I tell you, because it's true, that I do, I love our cock, made ours, and before you slide it out, it thanks me and returns the compliment.

And then, and only then, do I go back to your hotel room with you.

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