Sydian Ch. 01-08


Sydian/Chapter 1/Unique

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..."

Sydian/Chapter 2/ By the Way

Gently she took the hand that she had placed on her thigh in hers, sniffed its fragrance, lightly snaked her tongue over the longest digits, then grasped it firmly and led him from the booth. "By the way, I'm Sydd...short for Sydian."

He took it in for a moment, as he took her in. His composure, returning, slowly, he spoke for the first time, "Sydd..." softly. He thought on the name... "Sydian." It came to him: smooth, sleek, blackness.

She flicked her head at his murmuring and answered back just as softly, squeezing his hand, "Yes?"...the click of her heels across the parking lot the only other sound.


He had gotten her wrap in the restaurant, a swirl of pale blue, perfect contrast with the cobalt of her dress and eyes—she mocked and played from the inside of her head to the meticulous nature of what was first seen. Nothing was as it appeared. He placed it over her shoulders in the narrow passage between checkroom, restrooms and exit. Fluidly, like a thick, hot liqueur, she turned on him, pressed him against the wall and groped. Her fingers were flashes at his zipper. Unable to pull all that cock out, she stroked it in his pants, felt the knotted leather thong at its base, sighed, "uhmmmm"; slid her hand from base to head, milking her capture, her tongue stabbing the back of his throat while her wide, thick lips smothered his.

She pulled back. That wide smile crossed her face. "I just wanted to see if you were real. Now look what you've done to me..." He looked. Even in the gloom of the corridor he could tell. Like him, she had lengthened, thickened. Her cock was drooling down the expensive Cuban stockings. She made no attempt to hide her arousal, or her pleasure as they exited. None of this went unnoticed by the rest of the patrons; particularly those who had to negotiate this interlude, their bodies brushing—some even pressing—against the pressers—possibly deriving their own pleasures as well.

She moved him down the corridor, through the door and into the night air. And there he began to play the music to her ears...softly he spoke her name...


Searching for conversation. "So..." Sidelong glance; the smile... "Yes?" "Do you always dress like this?" "No Babi, usually, I only dress like this... to fuck and be fucked...this time you got the eye-candy, too." Stuck again, "hmmmm...," was all he could muster. "Cat got that tongue, again? Well, I'll see if I can remedy that. Over here," she motioned.

It was small, two-seated, fast—her. She pressed the key ring; it opened up. Pressing buttons, he noted...his, hers or both? She slid in behind the wheel—always sliding in—he dropped into the passenger seat. The cabin smelled of leather and her—another sign? Another "sliding" as her skirt slid above her thighs exposing her crotch—ten inches worth, balls and all. The key inserted; the ignition engaged, he could imagine the spark plugs firing. The pistons roused to life, rhythmically pumping and thumping at her insistence. He could imagine horse-power—he had just seen it...She depressed the clutch, slid the car into gear and they drifted along the dark streets...

She glanced at him from time to time. He caught snatches of her as they passed under lights, stopped for signals. He stopped being coy and let his eyes lay wherever he pleased, and she obliged. She slid her hand to the top of her stocking, snapped her "cock-band" and the stocking's elastic and her beauty sprang free. She turned the car onto a long, straight stretch of beach front highway, glanced at him and the way in which he was fixed on all that beautiful cock and smirked, "So, you wanna help me, here?" as she pushed the throttle to the floor.

Sydian/Chapter 3/A Long Straight Road

A long, straight road; coastal, along the sea, heading into it. In the distance, a sun that had not decided if it was setting or rising. A long, straight road, purpled mountains out his window. Enough light to catch the contrasts: the cobalt of her turtleneck against the flawless black of her high cheek bones; the slight slant of the cobalted eyes...the shock of winter-wheat twists that blended with the soft, deep leather of the seats. Strong, black arms smoothed into strong black hands—manicured nails glistening—gripped the wheel, pushed the car into fifth. They not so much flew as cruised.

Calculated or not, the stilettos on clutch and throttle had pushed the hem of the dress well beyond its limits—it had climbed above her waist and he thought he heard a distant sigh as her balls came into contact with the cool leather of the seat. A sidelong glance revealed the pale leather cupping that beautiful black ass...

The other gear knob glistened. It mushroomed atop a stiff, thick ebony column. A clear pearl forced its way through the slit, and then a copious stream followed. The head of her cock glinted in the fading light.

The car in cruise—70, 80 miles an hour—she placed her arm across the back of his seat; caught him in a glance. The full set of perfect teeth flashed as she ran her tongue over them, smiled and then hissed, huskily: 'So, can a girl get a hand, or what?' His hand crossed the divide of the console to the full space between her thighs. She winced...sighed...then moaned, ever so slightly (was it 'Yes, Daddi...' he heard, almost inaudibly?)...

His fingers played over the broad, mushroom head, smoothing the pearls of precum into it. When his grip dropped to the ridges below the crown, her hips jumped involuntarily. She tightened her grip on the wheel to control the car and herself. It was then that he began a relentless and methodical manual assault on her cock.

She pushed back in her seat as far as possible, opening her thighs as wide as she could. Her stretching extended to the throttle. The cruise-control disengaged. The vehicle move from 80 to 85 to 90...

'Ummmm...yessss, Daddi. Work Mami. Work my "gear-shift"...put this racing body through her paces...' The voice was caught in the back of her head...given her physical duress she could never have gotten the words to her tongue and through those beautiful lips. Lips that were now slightly parted by shallow breathing...her eyes glazed now and again as she fought to focus on the road and his pleasure-giving...

'Damn! This boy is too good! Shit! He's had practice at this...Ooooo, shit, too fuckin gooood!'

He concentrated on working the head. He simply figured on what brought him the most pleasure and he applied it to her...

'Uhnnnnnnn...!' she moaned, her back arching in the drivers seat, the stilettoed foot slamming the accelerator, arms extended, hands clutching the wheel...The first shot arced over the wheel, splattered against the windshield and thickly and slowly cascaded down. He pumped her thick, pretty cock two or three more times. Each time there was a jet of cream, not quite as powerful as the one before, but still quite impressive. All arcing and splattering the dash. By the time she swerved the car to a 180 degree halt on the shoulder, he was as sweaty as she was...and maybe for the same reasons. But he was still hard as a brick...


She lifted his cum-coated fist to her mouth, unfolded the fingers and licked them. 'You really should taste me...mmmmmm...' and she pushed the hand back to him... 'clean yourself' was both a request—almost from a lover—and an order. He licked the back of his hand first, and then proceeded to suck the creamed digits—almost too eagerly...His eye strayed to her crotch—he could have sworn her cock twitched and began to grow again—then back to her eyes. They were hot, smoldering and smirking...

She took his hand back, reached to his crotch. 'And what have we here?' she teased, as she sucked his two middle fingers deep into her mouth...

Sydian/Chapter 4/Milking

'Milking.' She loved the notion and all that it implied as she worked him through his pants. 'That feel good to you, Daddi?' she cooed, softly as he shifted in the soft leather, his trousers slick from the 'oil' she was pressing from his cock. 'Mmmmm, Mami's caught a big one here...'

She slid one well-manicured hand to the base of his cock. Through the linen of his pants with the 'O' of her thumb and index finger she circled and clamped the space from his pelvis back, choking the shaft and balls, forcing more blood into that monster cock. He moaned again; squirmed; his breath came in short bursts. 'Yessss, Daddi, yessss...' The maneuver brought her into contact with the braided thong that already encircled the base of his cock and that was making it and his balls swell. 'Hello...,' she said to herself. 'Mmmmm, I've got an interesting 'little' fucker here...this thing is going to feel delightful rubbing against all my nastiness...'

She tightened her circle, competing with the cock-thong. He moved and his cock did seemed to grow even more in his pants. Her other hand slid from the base to the head, smoothing the fabric in its wake. Pre-cum oozed in greater quantity, puddling, then seeping to the surface and staining the cloth. 'Oooooo, Daddi, we're really fuckin' up these pants...' He could only groan.

'Need to get you out of these. Babi's hungry.'


She released him—for the time being, at least—and with great symbolism, slid the key back into the ignition, turned over the engine and coaxed the fine car back onto the road. It was all a play on her body, her sex, her heat. She was the car. A fine, fine machine, finely tuned, and running hot. And he had a big key for her. Her mind and imagination turned to animal metaphors. She was a bitch—she contained her giggle—she certainly was—and he was a 'big dog'—and he certainly was... she was a big, nasty cat, and he was her tom. But the one that really suited their circumstance and her demeanor was the fact that she was actually a thoroughbred—a very hot and sweaty thoroughbred; and again, he was a stud. And she wanted horse-cock in the worst way. She wanted that horse-cock.

The vibration and purr of the engine stimulated both their cocks. She looked over at him and smiled—warmly and in anticipation, as they pulled into the garage. He stepped out, his discomfort evident—the cause for another of her smiles—but he was game as he walked around to her door. 'A 'gentleman,' in spite of it all, she chuckled to herself...

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