He Wants Me to Write

He wants me to write more. When he reads my words, from an innocuous blog with no heartbeat or flesh, he gets hard for me. He says he never gets hard from reading porn, but reading my porn, imagining me, visualizing me in the sentences I've created and he's hard. Then again, one look at my ass and he's hard.

He loves my ass. He could tell you stories that involve nothing but my ass. He loves the milky white softness, he loves the melon round cheeks, he loves maneuvering my lace thong from one side to the other as I crouch on the bed doggie style, sliding his cock in and out of whichever hole. Occasionally, he surprises me by touching one side or both sides with a resounding slap, "look at that ass" he'll say. "Your ass is unbelievable." While I'm still never quite sure what that means, it makes me smile and proud to carry that flesh behind me, wiggling from side to side as I walk whether it be in the grocery store or at a restaurant. His love of my ass has increased my panty budget, just so I can increase the number of times I hear him talk about his love of my ass. Believe me, at 45, it's more than nice to have someone love your ass.

He wants me to write stories with him in them. He wants me to write stories about us with another woman. He likes my fantasies. He doesn't want to live my fantasies, but he's happy to be with someone who has a sexual imagination. In the car on the way from dinner last night he suggested that I write a story where I'm wearing a tight black skirt, an oxford style white cotton shirt with one or two too many buttons undone so that my bra peeked out. He wanted me to wear glasses and be sitting behind a desk, a woman of position and power who could bring him to his knees and order him to satisfy me.

He wanted me to write a story of me coming to his shop in a sexy outfit, have him tie my hands up over my head with an air hose in his paint booth while the oven was pouring out heat, sweat would be dribbling down my breasts to my stomach while he tortured me with his tongue, lapping at my clit, stroking my rim with his fingers, driving me to the brink of orgasm and then stopping, teasing me until I begin to quiver with pleasur, cum dripping from my pussy, down onto my thighs before he'd give me the satisfaction of his hard cock.

He wanted me to write a story of another woman satisfying me, suckling my sweet pink clit, one hand placed on my breast pinching at my nipple, the other hand two fingers deep into my ass pumping in and out while he watches and doesn't participate, hard on in his hand. He thinks I'll like being with another woman, he thinks that I'm missing something by not having experienced the love of a woman. Me, I prefer my love of cock.

I'd prefer the love of another man, even two men. I'd prefer to be the focus of attention, cock in each hole, a tongue lapping between them on any flesh not being pounded or fingered to attention. I'd prefer hands all over my body, grabbing at my nipples, slapping and rubbing on my ass, kissing my neck, licking from my elbows to my fingers, the pleasure of a cock in my mouth - my oral fixation being satisfied, fucking my throat in and out while I try not to cum over and over again, squirting my partners from my flow.

He wants me to write for him, but this is my fantasy, isn't it?