Title: F is for Female
"Fuck me verbally Noel," she said.
Over the years I have been asked, occasionally co-erced, to perform various tasks, deeds of valor or otherwise. Some I have elected to fulfil, others not, for reasons ranging from personal preference to circumstantial inability. Never though have I been asked, up until this week at least, to fuck someone verbally. That isn't to say I can't or even necessarily that I don't wish to - it is simply a dynamically unusual request.
Now when it comes to fucking people, one has to look at the deed firstly in its most basic and in actuality, rather comical form. Typically, one can expect to find one (at least) rampant male, hormones in free-flow having cornered, subdued or in the worst-case scenario - paid for a women, in whatever circumstances have drawn the two together. Having most usually removed her clothing, or if patently desperate, simply her panties, he then pinions her to the floor, bed, wall, rear car seat or chandelier and inserts, with varying degrees of indignity, his vastly over-rated penis into that natty little lipped sac between her legs. Grunting, jerking, slobbering - more often than not all three, he will then rut away with completely uninhibited delight seeking to reach a chemical plateau at which point his DNA-soaked sperm jam up and jelly tight before crossing that bridge at a brisk pace, to the woman's ovulation-freeway. It is this transitional period, the male finds vastly to his liking.
During the "fucking phase" men are not known for their literate dialog. How many other ways after all, can one express the notion "Oh yeah hun," "Take it deep babe," or "Ride my dick slut," without resorting to laughable clinicisms such as, "I say Julie, would you mind awfully if I shoved my rather engorged penis way up inside your devilishly hot vagina for just a few minutes"
So immediately you can see we're talking here a whole new creative ball-game. When a girl says to you "Fuck me verbally please," she is wanting "communicative purpose," "depth of shared emotion," "experiential guidance," at the very least, some innovative and passionate appreciation of her femininity.
So too is she entitled to that.
Sex via the written word.
The quintessential chat-room opening "What color panties you wearing luv" might be seen as an example of this. In fact, all this ever achieves is to confirm the moronic status of the male participant. Think about it! Its hardly going to turn the girl on is it - she already knows what color knickers she has on. It's like most every other aspect of male sexual behavior - geared principally to the achieving of his own gratuitous satisfaction. Egocentric endplay in other words.
With regards therefore to the young lady who made the rather poignant plea for me to "fuck her verbally," this is the very least I can do. Now whilst this is in the way of a personal reply and I composed this for her specifically because of the wonderful person she is, I'm sure she will not mind if I add the comment that what I write has relevance to every other girl on the planet, uniquely desirable as every one is in their own way. No argument about that. If it were possible, I would be there with all of you and I would love you all equally. If when you have read this and hopefully having followed my (deliberately) obscurely referenced byplays at various intervals, you then close your eyes, you will realise that in fact I am with you. I always was!
How exquisite you are! Have you ever really looked and realised the privilege it has been to be born female Tonight, I will make you more aware of this fact than ever you have been. I will bring you to to the gates of your own temple.
How did we arrive at this confluence in our lives It doesn't really matter does it Merely that I am here and that I want to share a gift with you that so few understand, let alone respect.
Ahead of anything, I want you simply to be aware of your body as you read. Feel how snug your beautiful breasts are cupped in that little bra. If you concentrate enough you will be able to feel your nipples, even as you breathe. Besides their naturally intended use, they utterly define your femininity. If you feel like caressing them, please do. Imagine soft lips, whether your child's, mine or a future lover's, drawing down softly in what is ultimately, merely a quest for comfort. A flared memory recalled fleetingly. The protective instinct and cradled safety of a mother's arms down through the ages.
Even at this early stage, the slightest of physiological changes are taking place in your body. Besides the noticeable swelling at the base of your nipples caused by blood transfer, the imperceptible increase to your pulse-rate and the delicate flush resident now in your cheeks, you know even without the confirmation of touch, that within, moves are most definitely afoot to facilitate my participation.
Marginally unsure of exactly what is to happen, you sit there gazing at me - a little girl of eight, a nervous teenager, an adult female on the verge of a completely new discovery....a pastiche of all these. The only two things you sense with any conviction - that you are ultimately safe and that you want what it is that I possess. The key to your complete sexual fulfilment. I know not how or why I came thus equipped, merely that I did and that much like the full-moon itself, circumstances inevitably fall into a precise alignment that was set in motion long before either of us were born.
I want you to feel warm. I need you to feel wanted. You desire my intimacy just as much as I desire yours.
Simply looking at you is enough of a treat. I notice the little things. The tiny smile playing about your lips betraying in part your nervousness as well as your fully understandable pride in your birthright. It promotes also just a hint of flirtatious tease. I know it, you know it! The small lock of hair you keep unconsciously flicking away from your forehead, as if it matters! Your pretty feet, one shuffling atop the other now that you have felt sufficiently relaxed to give those shoes a miss. That you may or may not have loved another before matters but little. This is tonight. With me you are the breathless, incontrovertibly pure virgin you always were and in my experience always will be.
Your pupils dilate slightly as I kneel in front of you and take your hands in my own. There are so many things I could say, but words are superfluous. You know how I feel, you can see that in my own pupils.
My eyes caress you - from the curve of your breasts, a hint of which you quite deliberately permitted by your choice of top, to the flair of your hips and the hidden recesses between your thighs. You are not offended by my gaze as there is nothing to be offended by. Never was my glance lustfully motivated, simply steeped in appreciation and wonderment of so perfect a creation. Some of what I feel, you sense and instinctively your hand rises to your own breasts before you realise what you are doing. Swiftly you drop your hand back in your lap.
Even as the blush rises in your cheeks, I gently take a hold of your hand and raising it with fixed deliberation, replace it beneath your right breast. I encourage you to once again cup yourself and in fact cover your hand with my own. Together we begin to caress the softness that God has given to you and you let slip the slightest gasp. Watching as you rub yourself softly at the behest of my own hand I am totally aroused myself. More than anything I want now to suckle you and to draw your nipples between my own lips. How easy it would be...and how ill-timed.
Edging closer, I lay you gently back in the chair and very carefully take a hold of both your legs some six inches or so below the knee. I feel, rather than hear the sharp intake of breath and the momentary expression of concern that flits across your pretty face. You make no move to either sit-up or stop me however and I am happy for the trust I know you feel. Inclining my head, I kiss your knees and am aware immediately of your pleasured wriggling. Making deliberate eye contact, I pull apart your legs but the slightest angle.
Sitting there, you can hardly believe the moisture that is gathering in the main assembly area. The cotton fabric you know is now quite wet and you are embarrassed perhaps that I may soon make that very same discovery. Casting a momentary glance down your bra you are stunned additionally by the quite visible effect the escalating arousal factor is having on your nipples. This of course is an opportune moment to take a gentle hold of them yourself now and to further stimulate them.
Parting your legs ever wider, I can see now the silky-smooth skin of both thighs and the event horizon at which they disappear beneath the rather tasteful little pair of knickers curving down with such promise in my direct line of vision. I kiss the inside of your thigh as your increasing angle of incidence causes the hemline to ride ever higher. One can readily forget the square on the hypotenuse. It's the sum of the angles on the other two sides that interests me.
I slip one hand up to the limit of my vision. So inherently sexy is the feel of a girl's panties, knowing the prize they contain, that for a moment I am lost in my own little world although I do not fail to hear that delightful little gasp as you shuffle in the chair, instinctively wanting to push down between your legs yourself. I begin to set up an intense vertical manipulation, forcing the soft and quite obviously damp material well between the folds of those protective lips. Visually, this action is as stimulating as it must be welcomingly tactile from your viewpoint. You are quite unable to prevent the embyonic moan that now finds its way to the surface.
It is the right moment to tell you how much I love being with you and despite my seemingly disrespectful actions, I hold you in incorruptible respect. I hope that you believe me.
It differs of course from occasion to occasion but there comes an instant during any sort of foreplay, that signifies the point of no return has been reached. It may be the very first kiss, the first fumble in the back of a car - something as innocuous as being kissed tenderly on the neck just below the hairline. In our case, it was simply meeting. No way back from that eventuality.
The chair has seen-out its usefulness. I stand and offering my hand, take yours gently. You know where I must lead you.
Inviting you to lay down on the bed with me, I direct you to lie on your tummy. Typically female, you secretly enjoy my emotionally controlling aspect here. You know exactly how vulnerable you now appear in that position and it excites you. You wriggle slightly - nature at play - merely ensuring a continued biological interest.
Patting your bottom merely kick-starts the hormonal flow - for both of us! Before you can even think "I wish he'd stop being so damn genteel about this," I begin to push up that inviting little skirt once more. At the point your panties are fully exposed, I think that gasp we just heard may have been mine! So hot do you look. So hot do you feel! Playfully, I sit astride you near the base of your spine and then slip my hands beneath your shoulders until I am able to cup both your breasts. No physiotherapy ever devised was ever thus so jointly therapeutic. You murmur as you hold your arms outstretched.
"Ohhh that is so nice!"
Considering this possibly one of the greatest understatements of modern times, I nuzzle your lovely neck and just whisper how much I have always wanted you. You turn your head slightly - enough let's say for me to be able to lean across and kiss you soundly on the lips.
I'm not even thinking of you at that moment I realise. In fact, my mind goes back to my being twelve years old. Ages and continents apart, in quite another time, I remember suddenly poor old Mrs Cherry. I don't even know who she was. Simply an unutterably old lady - completely infirmed and in her nineties. My Aunt had taken her in and cared for her many years earlier. She was in her seventies herself then. Once in a while I would ride my bicycle the few miles from my home to my Aunt's house where I would cut her tiny back-lawn - little more than hack-it really, with a pair of pretty blunt shears she used to hang in the rotted old garden shed out back. She always gave me half-a-crown...insisted I should have it, although I had only gone there to help her, as she had severe back trouble and could not crouch down for long periods. Never did I fail to look-in and see Mrs Cherry in her darkened annex as she lay on that decrepit old bed. The little room smelled of urine and approaching death, and yet she would take my hand and smile at me. I loved her. This one afternoon after I had done what I could with the grass, I was ushered in to her room of faded hopes and dreams. I looked down as she slowly sought my hand and near blind now, pressed something into it. It was a two-shilling piece. No gift ever carried greater sentiment.
She died that weekend and it is only now for some reason that I realise, that but for the overlapping vagaries of time itself, it could so easily have been her lying on this bed awaiting my touch and maybe some physical evidence of the love I hold. Maybe you are her, and we are destined to cross paths for all eternity.
The memories upset me momentarily and I hug you and kiss you needfully. You turn over and cradle me suddenly. I feel like such a little boy. You ask me if everything is alright but I assure you I have never felt happier. It is the truth.
I have a pressing need to remove your top and for some reason you sense my urgency. You let me undo the necessary buttons and then shuck the thing off as I pull down your bra straps and reach around to unhook you. Free of social confinements the sheer beauty of your breasts stuns me. I am no longer the master of your sexual destiny but rather a student lover in awe of his beautiful teacher.
As my lips latch upon your nipple you sigh and lie back. I suck deeper and feel you pulling me to you. Kissing you becomes a desperate need and I whisper words that no literate script-writer would ever be likely to have penned. One hand follows the southern freeway, past your belly button, across the flatlands and clear beneath the elastic border. There is no toll to pay. The odd gorse bush is no deterrent and my fingers reach the fringes of Nirvana. I sense I am a welcome visitor and not waiting for an announcement, slip inside where it is so warm and accommodating.
Beneath me, your hips thrust noticeably upwards, meeting my own downward and gently invasive penetrations. I need to see that which I can feel. You need to show that which no longer demands to be hidden.
Slipping your panties down, I am presented with that supreme architectural accomplishment that I have seen and thrilled-to so many times before. Yet it is uniquely different - it is you. The balance of power shifts yet again. Your emotions peel back upon themselves and as you lie there now, a vulnerable and dependent little girl once again, I am Columbus, Genghis Khan, Thomas Edison, Euclid - on the verge of a new discovery.
I remove my own clothes and none too confidently at that. It is simply the unfamiliarity not embarrassment that impedes my actions. Divested of your skirt you are equally naked and both physically and mentally prepped for what is to follow. I am still kneeling there between your legs when I realise you have gently taken a hold of my erection and even now are lovingly caressing it along its length. Distracted to the point of feverish need, I manage to stave off my blindly motivated procreational urges, preferring instead to let you suffer the indignity of having to make the first move.
I am made to pay for my laughably ill-conceived arrogance. How like me you prove to be ultimately, quite obviously realising the emotional connections far outweigh the physical ones. As if sensing the impasse, we lay now facing each other side by side - neither with any sexual advantage. From this fully neutral viewpoint it takes but the simplest of shared impulses to set in motion all that we both want. All that we ever wanted. We kiss.
Those millions of nerve endings suddenly hot-wired and sending frantic messages to all points of the compass are but one aspect of kissing. The instantly opened-up two way passage of emotional feedback, the taste of desire, the starter's pistol - all this and so much more.
Did I place my erection at those beautiful lower lips Did you Does it matter As I push gently up inside you.....nothing matters, simply being there! I study your lovely expression as you open your mouth in silent ecstasy - feeling everything I am doing to you. I take a hold of your hips and thrust up..harder now. Your eyes begin to cloud over and the moans gain volume. I kiss your breasts as you now arch backwards providing me with complete access to your wholly erect nipples. It is like making love to a furnace I am in control as I must be and between the kisses you so desperately seek I whisper words of a language that offers no grammatical perfection, no right or incorrect phraseography, simply an open-ended dialog of impassioned communicative bliss.
With your knees as wide as you can comfortably spread them, I am afforded such penetrable latitude that already I feel the onset of rampant seminal marshalling deep down between my own legs. Your condition has deteriorated. If this continues you may well be on life support pre-orgasm!
I am taking you now so deep and with such relish that you have almost passed-out. Only the wonderful smile on your face betrays that you are still aware of your surroundings. Even as I incline my head and once again kiss those ultimately desirable lips, I come inside you with the force of a water-cannon.
I do not withdraw. Rather, I remain inside you, feeling my discharge combining with your own orgasmic fluids. What is perhaps the closest and most binding of emotions right now is the realisation that I love you.
(c) Peter_Pan firstname.lastname@example.org
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- Story Details and Information
- F is for Female
- Published: Dec 25, 2007
- Author: Peter_Pan
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- Category: Stories for women
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