aplus
08-11-2005, 08:19 AM
Please take a sec and read this and let me know what you think. Any feedback appreciated, and let me know if you see a grammar error or spelling mistake. I am entering this into a contest by the end of August, so comments would be great. By the way, this one is kinda NC-17...1
Chastity Jones
Chastity Jones. You lived down the hall from my first place, the dinky studio apartment that I moved into after college graduation. You were young, but not too young, an eye-catching black female who could easily be inserted into any man’s fantasies, especially mine. Your name was a misnomer; your wardrobe of short skirts, your pierced belly button framed by flat abdominals, and your long legs punctuated by strappy high-heels all provided subtle hints that you were far from chaste. Despite these clues, I knew when I first met you, when we exchanged that awkward pair of hellos in the laundry room, that I would do anything you asked.
It was late July when I finally mustered up enough gumption to actually flirt with you. At that point, the severe warmth of summer was starting to curdle the city. The humidity was so concentrated that it almost became a chore to breathe. The freezer compartment atop my refrigerator was broken, and the superintendent was taking his sweet time getting it fixed. I wanted ice cubes, so I decided to knock on your door and borrow some. I could have easily bothered any other neighbor, but I figured that asking you for ice might be an easy way to break the ice between us.
When you opened the door, I couldn’t help but stare, first into your enigmatic eyes, then at your freshly-glossed bee-sting lips, and finally at your petite chocolate body. I was mesmerized by the sight of your breasts trying to squeeze their way out of your tight top, the fabric straining to contain what I hoped might pop free. I eventually swallowed my anxiety and stammered out a polite request for ice. I usually acted like a smooth operator around women, but at that moment I was nowhere near charming, not with all my nervousness and ogling. But my obvious infatuation must’ve been why you invited me inside, instead of simply grabbing a cupful of cubes, handing them off to me, and sending me back home.
Once I passed through your doorway, I totally forgot about my desire for ice. You felt compelled to give me a tour of your place, which was clean and highly organized. It was considerably nicer than my sloppy bachelor pad. Your apartment looked like something out of a magazine – colorful throw rugs, hanging plants, numerous paintings, and modular furniture that was bought at IKEA or some other trendy store. Soon my masculine mindset started drifting into sexual daydreams. I noticed an extensive music collection positioned beside a huge king-sized bed. About ten minutes later, we were sipping red wine and listening to the blues while sitting atop the 600-thread count sheets. We lounged around and chatted for more than an hour, talking like giddy teenagers on the phone after midnight. You told me all about your sheltered childhood and I revealed my zealous aspirations to write my degenerate version of the great American novel.
While we conversed, we both experienced this magical sense of attraction, a sort of rare sexual alchemy that plagued our every thought. Therefore, the vibe transitioned from playful to lustful rather hastily. I have no idea how it all happened. When there was a clumsy pause in our discussion, I reached my fingers out and started tracing the nape of your swanlike neck. You looked at me amorously. You didn’t need to say anything. I recognized that you had to have my lips touching yours. Our mouths crushed together so hard that it hurt us both a little bit. During this moist, unguarded kiss, I discovered that your tongue was small, but curious and resilient.
Seconds later, I had your back flat on the bed, your legs unfolded and hooked around me, your top pulled off exposing your delicious body to my hungry mouth, your thong yanked to one side, and my pointer and middle fingers reaching under your skirt to probe inside you, all while my other hand was pulling your body closer to mine. Once we were both naked, we couldn’t get enough of each other in our mouths. While my tongue tickled your flesh, I watched as you rubbed the head of my d*ck over your nipples, and then as you stuffed all you could of it into your undersized mouth. After a few minutes, I took control, turning you over and positioning your round brown backside in the air, keeping your belly low to the bed. You gasped out of pleasure, so I quickly lunged for a prophylactic before either of us could second guess our actions.
My hands frantically fished through my jeans pocket and uncovered a small gold package. After tearing open the wrapper, I pulled the condom out and carefully rolled it down the length of my rigid shaft, leaving a pinch of slack at the business end. As I put myself inside you from behind, my eyes followed the arched groove of your spine down to the cleft of your butt, and then focused on all the sweat droplets clinging to the underside of your ass. I began to grind gradually. You released a slight squeak every time the tip of my curved cock pushed against the roof of your uterus. That little sound turned me on, inspiring me to drive deeper into you.
You liked sex a bit rougher than any of my previous partners, but I was versatile enough to enjoy experimenting with you. I remember you demanded that I choke you halfway through our romp. Although I hesitated, I eventually wrapped my fingers around your throat, firmly but not maliciously. As we fornicated with greater intensity, I accidentally banged your skull against the headboard. I apologized instantly, but you shushed me and panted, “No baby, keep on doing that.” Soon you asked shyly if I would call you “my little slut” while we were fu*king. I became somewhat desensitized to all the kinky things you asked for, but I also was surprised at how much your requests aroused me.
We screwed for hours that afternoon, until we both came and I collapsed on top of you. I pulled out carefully, making sure the condom stayed in place until my exit, and then we both fell asleep wrapped in the softness of the bed sheets. We stayed there for hours, spooning in a nearly comatose state, until your boyfriend came home and beat my face with the ferocity of a professional boxer. While he pummeled me, with his fists swinging and his jealous mind blazing, you simply sat up and watched all the violence without letting out a single whimper or protest. Who knows, you probably even smirked at my pain; I couldn’t see you, since my eyes were swollen and streaked with blood after the twelfth hit.
It was the element of surprise that did me in. Being roused from slumber by stiff punches is a traumatic experience, much more unnerving than my morning routine of waking up to an alarm clock. Once he struck me, I didn’t have a chance to defend myself. How was I supposed to know you had a boyfriend who rarely ever came home, except to check up on you? How was I supposed to know we were drinking his favorite merlot from his wine rack? How was I supposed to know that I had rifled through his prized compact disc collection to find mood music? How was I supposed to know that I was napping in his bed, after I had already mounted his lover and fu*ked her senseless? How was I supposed to know that you were in a committed relationship? You told me nothing, so I can understand everything that he did, and why his rage was so uncontrolled. Despite this understanding, I caught him by surprise a few weeks later in a poorly lit parking lot and exacted payback with a baseball bat. Afterwards he was a completely different person, and so was I.
I don’t know where you are now, Chastity Jones. All I know about you is this blur of limited memories. Your mannerisms were genteel like a former prom queen, but you had the soul of a whore. You showed me that a woman can change from passionate lover to callous bi*ch within the span of a single heartbeat. Your angelic looks disguised the fact that you were a lust-crazed demon. I despise you. I love you. I never want to hear from you again. I pray that I might accidentally run into you, if only to exchange another awkward pair of hellos.
Chastity Jones
Chastity Jones. You lived down the hall from my first place, the dinky studio apartment that I moved into after college graduation. You were young, but not too young, an eye-catching black female who could easily be inserted into any man’s fantasies, especially mine. Your name was a misnomer; your wardrobe of short skirts, your pierced belly button framed by flat abdominals, and your long legs punctuated by strappy high-heels all provided subtle hints that you were far from chaste. Despite these clues, I knew when I first met you, when we exchanged that awkward pair of hellos in the laundry room, that I would do anything you asked.
It was late July when I finally mustered up enough gumption to actually flirt with you. At that point, the severe warmth of summer was starting to curdle the city. The humidity was so concentrated that it almost became a chore to breathe. The freezer compartment atop my refrigerator was broken, and the superintendent was taking his sweet time getting it fixed. I wanted ice cubes, so I decided to knock on your door and borrow some. I could have easily bothered any other neighbor, but I figured that asking you for ice might be an easy way to break the ice between us.
When you opened the door, I couldn’t help but stare, first into your enigmatic eyes, then at your freshly-glossed bee-sting lips, and finally at your petite chocolate body. I was mesmerized by the sight of your breasts trying to squeeze their way out of your tight top, the fabric straining to contain what I hoped might pop free. I eventually swallowed my anxiety and stammered out a polite request for ice. I usually acted like a smooth operator around women, but at that moment I was nowhere near charming, not with all my nervousness and ogling. But my obvious infatuation must’ve been why you invited me inside, instead of simply grabbing a cupful of cubes, handing them off to me, and sending me back home.
Once I passed through your doorway, I totally forgot about my desire for ice. You felt compelled to give me a tour of your place, which was clean and highly organized. It was considerably nicer than my sloppy bachelor pad. Your apartment looked like something out of a magazine – colorful throw rugs, hanging plants, numerous paintings, and modular furniture that was bought at IKEA or some other trendy store. Soon my masculine mindset started drifting into sexual daydreams. I noticed an extensive music collection positioned beside a huge king-sized bed. About ten minutes later, we were sipping red wine and listening to the blues while sitting atop the 600-thread count sheets. We lounged around and chatted for more than an hour, talking like giddy teenagers on the phone after midnight. You told me all about your sheltered childhood and I revealed my zealous aspirations to write my degenerate version of the great American novel.
While we conversed, we both experienced this magical sense of attraction, a sort of rare sexual alchemy that plagued our every thought. Therefore, the vibe transitioned from playful to lustful rather hastily. I have no idea how it all happened. When there was a clumsy pause in our discussion, I reached my fingers out and started tracing the nape of your swanlike neck. You looked at me amorously. You didn’t need to say anything. I recognized that you had to have my lips touching yours. Our mouths crushed together so hard that it hurt us both a little bit. During this moist, unguarded kiss, I discovered that your tongue was small, but curious and resilient.
Seconds later, I had your back flat on the bed, your legs unfolded and hooked around me, your top pulled off exposing your delicious body to my hungry mouth, your thong yanked to one side, and my pointer and middle fingers reaching under your skirt to probe inside you, all while my other hand was pulling your body closer to mine. Once we were both naked, we couldn’t get enough of each other in our mouths. While my tongue tickled your flesh, I watched as you rubbed the head of my d*ck over your nipples, and then as you stuffed all you could of it into your undersized mouth. After a few minutes, I took control, turning you over and positioning your round brown backside in the air, keeping your belly low to the bed. You gasped out of pleasure, so I quickly lunged for a prophylactic before either of us could second guess our actions.
My hands frantically fished through my jeans pocket and uncovered a small gold package. After tearing open the wrapper, I pulled the condom out and carefully rolled it down the length of my rigid shaft, leaving a pinch of slack at the business end. As I put myself inside you from behind, my eyes followed the arched groove of your spine down to the cleft of your butt, and then focused on all the sweat droplets clinging to the underside of your ass. I began to grind gradually. You released a slight squeak every time the tip of my curved cock pushed against the roof of your uterus. That little sound turned me on, inspiring me to drive deeper into you.
You liked sex a bit rougher than any of my previous partners, but I was versatile enough to enjoy experimenting with you. I remember you demanded that I choke you halfway through our romp. Although I hesitated, I eventually wrapped my fingers around your throat, firmly but not maliciously. As we fornicated with greater intensity, I accidentally banged your skull against the headboard. I apologized instantly, but you shushed me and panted, “No baby, keep on doing that.” Soon you asked shyly if I would call you “my little slut” while we were fu*king. I became somewhat desensitized to all the kinky things you asked for, but I also was surprised at how much your requests aroused me.
We screwed for hours that afternoon, until we both came and I collapsed on top of you. I pulled out carefully, making sure the condom stayed in place until my exit, and then we both fell asleep wrapped in the softness of the bed sheets. We stayed there for hours, spooning in a nearly comatose state, until your boyfriend came home and beat my face with the ferocity of a professional boxer. While he pummeled me, with his fists swinging and his jealous mind blazing, you simply sat up and watched all the violence without letting out a single whimper or protest. Who knows, you probably even smirked at my pain; I couldn’t see you, since my eyes were swollen and streaked with blood after the twelfth hit.
It was the element of surprise that did me in. Being roused from slumber by stiff punches is a traumatic experience, much more unnerving than my morning routine of waking up to an alarm clock. Once he struck me, I didn’t have a chance to defend myself. How was I supposed to know you had a boyfriend who rarely ever came home, except to check up on you? How was I supposed to know we were drinking his favorite merlot from his wine rack? How was I supposed to know that I had rifled through his prized compact disc collection to find mood music? How was I supposed to know that I was napping in his bed, after I had already mounted his lover and fu*ked her senseless? How was I supposed to know that you were in a committed relationship? You told me nothing, so I can understand everything that he did, and why his rage was so uncontrolled. Despite this understanding, I caught him by surprise a few weeks later in a poorly lit parking lot and exacted payback with a baseball bat. Afterwards he was a completely different person, and so was I.
I don’t know where you are now, Chastity Jones. All I know about you is this blur of limited memories. Your mannerisms were genteel like a former prom queen, but you had the soul of a whore. You showed me that a woman can change from passionate lover to callous bi*ch within the span of a single heartbeat. Your angelic looks disguised the fact that you were a lust-crazed demon. I despise you. I love you. I never want to hear from you again. I pray that I might accidentally run into you, if only to exchange another awkward pair of hellos.