It's been one of those nights that we are hitting on all cylinders. We moving with grace. And Grace is moving other people out of our way. We're the king and queen of the dance floor tonight. Our waltz is whispering: "He's gonna take her panties off". Our foxtrot is saying: "SHE'S gonna take her own panties off!" And our Rumba, oh! our Rumba is just all wet! Dripping with: "They're gonna f**k the sh*t out of each other!" We dance. And we sweat. And we dance. I know that later on I'll be able to pick up my SugarAnne's personal "essence" like a predator picks up the scent of his next meal. Damn, she looks good. She is driving me absolutely crazy! And I'm lusting after her.
On the long drive home all I can think about is how I'm gonna satisfy my lust for this woman - take this woman - my woman, my SugarAnne. On the radio the Spice Girls are singing:
I need some love like I never needed love before (Wanna make love to ya baby)
I've had a little love, now I'm back for more (Gonna make love to ya baby)
Set your spirit free, it's the only way to be
Come a little bit closer baby (Get it on, Get it on)
Tonight is the night that 2 Become 1
All I can think about is putting a crown on this night by exercising the BabyMan's kingly rights to a taste of the queen's sweet "beehive". Oh, the honey that hive must be holding. If you understand what I'm saying – yo.
We get home. "Lock the door", I say sternly. I say it just the right way - with that, that "command voice". This has an effect on my SugarAnne. And I know that in her depths the primal juices will begin to involuntarily stir. As soon as the bolt of the lock hits the jamb of the door I flip her around and pin her my body pressed full against her lusciousness, her body pressed against the door. I let my coat slide down my arms to the floor.
"What are you doing?!" she says looking up at me. She's vulnerable, cute. Her youthful beauty concealing 40 plus trips around the sun. "You've been teasing me all night young lady! Looking so damn good. And now that I've got you home I'm gonna get into those sweet panties". I say it with a purpose that won't be - can't be - denied. I slide her coat off her shoulders exposing the spaghetti. My eyes drool at the cleavage of meatballs too big for any plate to hold. Her coat falls to the floor. I grip her wrists firmly and lift her arms above her head and hold them against the door. I step back, best I can, to take in all of my Sugaranne. Face, with quizzical objection yet body compliant. I can now see all - face, top, skirt - all that's been tantalizing me all night. I catch a hint of my SugarAnne's "fragrance" and place my face gently to the exposed pit of her arm. I give it a predatory sniff. She struggles just a bit but knows - with 10 months of muscle building under my belt - it's futile. It's not my intent to overpower her physically but I can and she knows that I can - and I will if I have to. My intent - my sincerest love driven intent - is to love her deeply: mentally, spiritually, physically. I savor her "cologne". I take it in to intoxication. It lights my wick. It's just a matter of time before my stick of "dynamite" explodes. I desire to taste her saltiness.
I look down at her. Looking through her eyes to her very soul. I know this woman. I love this woman. "You think you're a 'good girl' huh? A 'nice girl', huh?" It's a rhetorical question. "Well 'nice girls' must be made to do 'bad things' - made to do things they think only a 'tramp' would do. Sometimes it's for their own good". Another empty struggle to break free follows the declaration. I assert the firmness of my grip on her lifted arms. She surrenders - momentarily - to her fate. As a consolation for this surrender I release her left wrist. As her arm falls to her side I command: "Lift that skirt up. Let me see those panties". Her hesitation begs a second command. My demeanor yells but my voice, my voice... I do not use my voice to yell. "I SAID", enunciating now, "lift up that skirt and let me see them panties". With reluctant compliance she uses her left hand to jack up the front of her skirt. She holds the hem against her mid-section. I can see the print of the prize - her womanhood - behind the virgin white. I know there's a night of dancing's sweat in those sweet panties. I wanna know what that smells like. I slip my free hand between her warm thighs and let it rest there long enough for my fingers to appropriate the sweet aroma.
Looking down at her, deep into her eyes, I bring her delightful stink up to my face and run my forefinger under my nose. It might as well smell like molten lava chocolate cake. I take a deep whiff (my wick is burning hotter, faster). "Now take those panties down". Command. She balks at first. Struggles with the subpoena but then resigns herself to the struggle of the one-handed task. She slips three fingers inside the waistband of her panties and running them around from front to back she works her panties down. I stop her when they settle around her thighs, just above the knees.
With her free hand I make her undo my belt buckle and unclasp my pants. As they drop to the floor around my ankles my pickle twitches excitedly against boxer briefs. I grind it against her. I reach around and get a firm grip on that sweet ass and press her femininity against my protruding brief-clad masculinity. I look in her eyes and begin to grind. My hand applies pressure on her butt and I force her to return the grind. She turns her head away. Her free arm, limp, signaling her surrender. I kiss her neck. LIck. I taste the salt of her sweat. Bite. Softly. Nibbling. Sucking. Tasting the hor'dorves - the appetizer - before the main course. A slight gasp escapes her lips announcing that excitement has squeezed through reluctance. She doesn't like being taken. But she likes being taken by me. She trusts me.
I release her behind, grip her shoulder and press down. I meet her resistance with firm encouragement. I can feel her breasts rub against my "thunder" Her panties have slipped down to her calves. She's on her knees face to face with the bulge in my shorts now. I place her hands on my thighs and hold them there with my own. She feels the result of so many leg presses at the gym. I Rumba my hips forward ever so slightly. Her face grazes the swelling behind my briefs. She's uncomfortable - a 'good girl' - a 'lady' not a 'tramp'. But curiosity trumps reluctance and she gives my thighs a squeeze to test of the hardness of rejuvenated muscles. I can sense her fever on the edge of an upward spike. She draws back enough to study a vein that's been threatening to rise on my inner right thigh. She kisses it. Softly, gently, lovingly. Losing herself for a moment her lips move up and down the inner thigh. Enamored with its hardness she "crosses the street" and affords the left thigh the same kingly benefit. I shock her back to the reality of being taken with a command: "Sniff it. Sniff the night of dancing on your man's d**k."
I know my woman. I can think my woman's feelings. And I can feel my woman's thinking: "'Good girls, 'nice girls' don't do this sort of thing. I'm a ''lady, not a tramp'". I place my hand gently on the back of her head meeting resistance with encouragement. I pull her toward me and say, "Sniff it." She takes a weak sniff between my flexed thighs and attempts a retreat. "Nah, you ain't going no where". I press her back to full facial contact. "Sniff it so I can hear you", I demand. It is here I would expect to hear the safe word "aspirin" (which means I'm being too rough) or "Xanax" ('it's time to stop - now!'). Instead she takes a deep long, loud sniff. My d**k reflexes to full attention. When she pulls back I can see "Jerk!" in her eyes. Defiantly she says, "You satisfied - " The last word "a**hole!" goes unspoken. "That's the smell of your man in heat. You're about to be f**ked - and well", I say.
"Know your man, SugarAnne. Know his smell SugarAnne. Know the BabyMan's needs", I advise. "Now take my shorts down and appreciate the ugly beauty of your man's manhood". She snatches my shorts down. "Now kiss it". She hesitates. I apply gentle pressure to the back of her head. I'm thick with excitement. She kisses it tentatively, like a "nice girl" - like a "lady" who is being made to do bad things. She didn't want to, but she wanted to. And for a few moments unrestrained inhibition took over and I can feel her warm, wet mouth slide rhythmically - gently back and forth over the BabyMan's manhood.
Lifting her up to her feet shocks her again to the reality that she is being taken. I could see gravity take her panties the final few inches to her ankles. She steps out of them. Holding both her hands behind her with one of mine, I grab a hand full of her hair with the other. I pull her head back to look up at me. I bite her neck deliciously. An exaggerated wince of pain spills out of her mouth. I pull back to study her face. I lovingly drink in her in with my eyes. I appreciate its features: the way the corner of her eyes naturally turn down with the appearance of puppy dog sadness. Her lips moist with my pleasure. She's beautiful. I lick my lips and lean in. We meet. The hunger is mutual for now. All "good girl" restraint, all "nice girl" reluctance has surrendered to animal passion and deep marital love. Finally, arms still restrained, I guide her to the bedroom and toss her on the bed face down. She knows what I want to see but the "nice girl" can't bring herself to voluntarily comply. So I grab hold of her waist with both hands, pull her to her knees. I press down on the small of her back so that that a** bubbles up to meet me. "Now stick it out. Show me you want me to see it". I can smell the sweet-scented pungency of it. I sniff it like a dog in heat. She wants to pull away - "nice girls" y'know. But I slip my arms over her thighs, circled them back around her hips, gripped both cheeks with my hands and bury my face in between them. I French kiss the deepest darkest most private crevices of her body. She pushes the pastry back toward my face. Hmmmmmm! I about at my wick's end! There's gonna be an explosion tonight!
I give the sweet meat on that booty a few sharp spanks as I rise to enter her doggy-style. "I'm gonna take love from this pu**y like a Klingon (cuz I'd kill for you). And I'm gonna make love to this p**sy like a Spartan (cuz I'd die for you)." I move in to take my reward. Moisture betrays her excitement. I enter, reach over and grab a hand full of hair and tug playfully, turning her head to one side for the hard down stroke, to the other for the slow up stroke. She offered more exaggerated winces of pain but the pure joy of it all demands a response of thrusts of her own. I remove what clothes remain as my mad man Klingon metamorphoses to Spartan. I turn her over onto her back. The '"lady" is a willing participant now. No "tramp" - but a woman in love. Willing and open and ready to receive the Spartan who would sacrifice himself for her if necessary. I tenderly bury my head in her breasts sucking youthfully as I re-entered her. We hold each other close - lovingly close. Tenderly close. We make love, pumping rhythmically. We make love, "rolling" passionately. We make love, grinding feverishly. We merge, masculinity and femininity. We merge mentally. We merge spiritually. In the anticipated explosion we merge flesh to flesh: "2 Become 1".
When we finish she manages to "escape" from under the weight of my body. Spent and worn out she backs away one arm straight out in a crossing guard STOP gesture. The other hand crosses her body covering as much of her "vulnerability" as it can. "You're crazy!" She says. "YOU-ARE-CRAZY!! What has gotten in to you? Stay away from me!". She backs into her bathroom. She's on "good girl" footing again. Her "nice girl" status remains secure and intact. She returns and climbs into my arms - willfully, warmly, thankfully, softly submissive. I hold her close to me. We're connected deeply. I kiss her softy and caress her. I have taken her. This "lady" ain't no "tramp". She is mine and I - hers.
I hit the automatic gate opener. My headlights sweep along the building illuminating the white bricks as we turn into our driveway. Did I break any traffic laws on the way home? I pull into our parking space and give my SugarAnne a soft nudge to jog her from her slumber. It's been a fun night of dancing. I love it when we dance.
I love it when we dance. Even when me and my SugarAnne practice at home in the basement. But tonight's been a great night of "going live". My SugarAnne is looking especially sweet. She's been working out regularly so she's looking svelte and shapely, yet strong and sturdy. She's wearing one of those poofy little "girly shit" skirts that I love so much. "Girly shit" pink, short enough to show her "new" shapely and well exercised legs. I don't have to guess that you can get a peek of her bikini panties when I give her a quick underarm turn in Waltz or dip her in Foxtrot. I saw them myself when she danced with that bastard Leonard. Rumba. But that's another story. Depending on your vantage point you - if you strenuously pursue it - you could catch a quick glimpse of a camel toe in the front. Or you might see them working their way in to the crease of her sweet booty from behind. Her top, white, matches her panties. Spaghetti string, strong enough to hold, accentuate and enhance the beauty of ample breasts. But not so tight as to make artificial the presentation. My SugarAnne don't need no artificial presentation when it comes to her boobs! She has more than enough but not too much. Hmm-hmm-hmm! Beautiful. Damn she looks good! And I'm lusting after her.