Anthea s baby 1
- 2 years ago
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The Kind Of Friend She Is free porn video
I have a hard time saying no to a friend – that’s just who I am. So when I read her email to me, I didn’t hesitate in saying yes to her. It really wasn’t that onerous a request anyway.
She wants another sordid fantasy from me.
A few thousand miles separate us, and we’ve never met face to face. For that matter, I’ve never seen her face. Just online messages, some chat and now some emails. We haven’t even exchanged the naughty pictures of body parts that sometimes characterize online friendships.
Who is she?
I really don’t know too much, now that I think about it. I know enough, though, from her words, to know that she is a beautiful person. A good soul. A generous spirit. One of those people who when they become your friend, they are one hundred percent committed to being selfless.
The kind of person who says, “thank you” and actually means it.
The other night I made a passing comment about something in an email, and added, “unless you want to hear my sordid fantasies”. I added an LOL just so she wouldn’t think anything ill of my comment.
It was meant innocently.
But she then responded and said she wanted to hear my sordid fantasies.
I sent her one.
She read it. She responded. Then she wanted to hear another of my sordid fantasies about her.
For the record, the fantasies are not really sordid. They are fantasies, fueled by the beauty of her inherent nature, a beauty that comes through so clearly in her words. Call me crazy, but the biggest turn-on for me is a woman’s mind and her soul. When I am making love to a woman, I am not making love to her body parts – they are just a conduit for physical contact. No, I am making love to who that woman is, what she believes in, what she feels, what she expresses.
I am making love to a person, not an object. Not an image.
My last fantasy ended as I finished giving her oral pleasure in her home, after I travelled thousands of miles to see her.
But where does my next fantasy begin?
You sit there, spent from the attention my tongue and lips have given your pussy. You are wet, and your breathing, although settling down from the peak of your climax, is still deep and labored. Your blouse is still on, and beneath it I can see the faint shadows of a dark-colored bra, and you still have your skirt on, although it is pushed up about your waist, exposing your pussy which is now flushed red and wet all around. You are not wearing panties, and that is how I first found you, so I haven’t even had the pleasure yet of undressing you.
I am still fully dressed, except for my shoes, which I left at your front door. It had been raining, and even though you said I could leave them on, I didn’t want to track the rain onto your floors. I dressed formally – I was supposed to be on a business trip, at least to everyone else in my world – and I am still in my blazer, tie, dress pants and white shirt. I am dressed for business not pleasure.
I kneel in front of you, watching your pussy so closely and with fascination. A pussy is a pussy, right? All women have them. Why is yours so different? Why do I love it so?
But I do.
And I kneel there, fixated on the beautiful pink flesh within the soft folds, the dampness, the smoothness, the heady aroma of your nectar still fresh on your body and on my face.
“I want to see you now,” you say to me. “Stand up and get undressed for me.”
I do as I am told, because as much as coming to see you was my fantasy and my desire, I am a guest in your home. I respect your rules inside your four walls.
And I do it because deep down I want you to see just how aroused you have made me.
I stand up, and remove my blazer, carefully draping it over the back of a chair. I undo my tie and lay it on top of my blazer, and then I remove my white shirt, undoing the buttons and draping it on top of my other clothes. I am wearing a white cotton undershirt, and I leave that on while I undo my belt and slide it through the belt loops of my pants and then drop it onto the chair. I undo my pants and slide them down to my ankles, and then step out of the pant legs, taking them off and again draping them on top of the chair. I am in my socks, a pair of red boxers and a white undershirt, and I remove my socks first, then my undershirt, and I stand in front of you, only in my boxers.
“Let me do the rest,” you say, as you stand up from the sofa, your skirt falling down again to cover you modestly, although I know just below the skirt what lies there.
You come up to me, and reach down to my boxers, and you bend down as you slide the boxers off of me, and I accommodate your efforts by stepping out of them.
You bring my boxers to your face and inhale them, and you purr softly, saying “Hmmmm…even your sweat smells sexy…you were sweating on the plane ride, weren’t you? In your crotch…on your balls…your cock…you were hot and sweaty inside these boxers…”
You toss my boxers onto the chair, a perfect shot – a three-pointer.
I stand in front of you naked, my erect cock standing up straight, pointing up toward you, firm and steely, and you grasp my cock with both hands and start to stroke me. Your hands feel soft upon my skin, and rather than handle me roughly or with passion, your touch is tender and soothing. The tenderness of a woman who has been a mother, I think to myself, and whose hands have cradled and soothed babies, and now she touches me with the same gentle reassurance.
You caress me, and fondle my balls in your hands as you also stroke my erection, your gaze fixed upon my eyes and not upon my parts. You look me in the eyes and though you are silent, your gaze speaks to me, saying, “this is what I can do with my hands…imagine my lips and tongue…imagine the softness of my pussy surrounding your hardness…imagine when we are joined together making love…imagine how I will show you how much your cock arouses me…”
Perhaps that is what your gaze is saying. Or perhaps you are just thinking about how wet you were only moments ago, when I was kneeling between your legs and making love to your pussy with my mouth.
Or perhaps you are not thinking of anything at all, and it is just your body communicating with my body, your sex and my sex, speaking their own language.
You stroke me steadily, and although I want to hold on as long as I can, and save my climax for another round, your touch is simply too arousing. Not the rough passions of some of the words we have shared, but a steady and pleasing touch, gentle yet firm, and very knowing.
My cock is growing harder, as it becomes engorged and as I feel my climax approach. I whisper to you and say, “I cannot hold it much longer,” and you say in response, “Don’t hold it back…I want you to just let it go.”
You keep on rubbing my hardness, up and down, playing with the head, and all the while looking at my eyes. I have been leaking pre-cum, and you simply use it to lubricate the head of my cock as you play with it, but not once do you taste it, never once departing from your soft and gentle loving of my cock.
I tense up and stand on my toes as my climax finally arrives, and my warm semen emerges and lands on the floor between us, some of it dribbling down the side of my cock and into your hands which continue to stroke me, sometimes twisting around and rotating on my cock, and your hands become wet and sticky with my ejaculation.
My body is tense and shaking, the feelings so intense, and as you continue to touch me after my climax, the sensitivity of my cock is unreal. I feel electric jolts being sent through my body as you continue to please my hardness, which has not softened even after ejaculating.
You stop and ask me if it was like this in my fantasies before we met, and I tell you that it was nothing at all like my fantasies.
My fantasies couldn’t begin to fathom just how tenderly you would touch me, and they couldn’t begin to fathom just how beautiful you seem to me. I knew you were beautiful before ever seeing you, but now I see that your body, your face and especially your eyes match the beauty of your words and your spirit.
I stand there naked in front of you, as you stand clothed in front of me, and your left hand is still holding my cock, while your right hand reaches out to my shoulder and my neck, and you draw me closer to you so that our bodies are almost touching.
You lean forward and kiss me on my cheek. Then you rest your head on my shoulder and whisper in my ear that if I want to, I don’t have to go to the hotel and I can spend the night with you, or if I want, you will come with me and spend the night in the hotel with me.
My fantasy of seeing you still has a reality, a reality back home, where there are people who may want to reach me and who believe I will be in a hotel, so we both decide it would be best if you come with me and we stay together in my hotel room.
You lead me to your bathroom and we both clean up, before I return to the living room and retrieve my clothes and get dressed. You excuse yourself and go to your bedroom, while I sit on your sofa, thinking about nothing in particular, and then you emerge in about ten minutes with a small bag of your personal effects and a change of clothes.
You come up to me, and I stand up from the sofa to meet you, and as we near each other, you drop your bag to the ground and reach out with both arms and draw me in to you for an embrace. I feel your breasts up against me, even through my shirt and tie and blazer, and even through the sweater you have put on over your blouse. Your breasts feel soft and luscious, though they are still a mystery to me even after the intimacies we have just shared.
We embrace and you kiss me on the lips, for the first time tasting any of me. You smile after we break from the kiss, and your only words are about where we should go for dinner. Nothing about what we have just shared. Nothing about what we might share. Just dinner, telling me about some of the local favorites you have in mind.
A fantasy.
My fantasy. I don’t know what her fantasy is, whether it is made up of quiet and tender moments of intimacy, as in mine, or if her fantasy involves something rough and intense. Or if she even has fantasies at all about me.
This is just my fantasy. It was soft and gentle, although I still don’t know what will happen in the hotel room. It was soft and gentle because in reality, we can all find someone to fuck, someone to give us a ride for our money. That’s what is so beautiful about fantasy. It gives us a chance to find someone and something that will fill our hearts and imagination, and not just someone and something that will fill some time.
I guess I’ll have to apologize to her. That fantasy wasn’t really sordid at all. But I know that even if I haven’t given her exactly what she sought, she’ll still say, “thank you” to me.
That’s just the kind of friend, and woman, she is.
She wants another sordid fantasy from me.
A few thousand miles separate us, and we’ve never met face to face. For that matter, I’ve never seen her face. Just online messages, some chat and now some emails. We haven’t even exchanged the naughty pictures of body parts that sometimes characterize online friendships.
Who is she?
I really don’t know too much, now that I think about it. I know enough, though, from her words, to know that she is a beautiful person. A good soul. A generous spirit. One of those people who when they become your friend, they are one hundred percent committed to being selfless.
The kind of person who says, “thank you” and actually means it.
The other night I made a passing comment about something in an email, and added, “unless you want to hear my sordid fantasies”. I added an LOL just so she wouldn’t think anything ill of my comment.
It was meant innocently.
But she then responded and said she wanted to hear my sordid fantasies.
I sent her one.
She read it. She responded. Then she wanted to hear another of my sordid fantasies about her.
For the record, the fantasies are not really sordid. They are fantasies, fueled by the beauty of her inherent nature, a beauty that comes through so clearly in her words. Call me crazy, but the biggest turn-on for me is a woman’s mind and her soul. When I am making love to a woman, I am not making love to her body parts – they are just a conduit for physical contact. No, I am making love to who that woman is, what she believes in, what she feels, what she expresses.
I am making love to a person, not an object. Not an image.
My last fantasy ended as I finished giving her oral pleasure in her home, after I travelled thousands of miles to see her.
But where does my next fantasy begin?
You sit there, spent from the attention my tongue and lips have given your pussy. You are wet, and your breathing, although settling down from the peak of your climax, is still deep and labored. Your blouse is still on, and beneath it I can see the faint shadows of a dark-colored bra, and you still have your skirt on, although it is pushed up about your waist, exposing your pussy which is now flushed red and wet all around. You are not wearing panties, and that is how I first found you, so I haven’t even had the pleasure yet of undressing you.
I am still fully dressed, except for my shoes, which I left at your front door. It had been raining, and even though you said I could leave them on, I didn’t want to track the rain onto your floors. I dressed formally – I was supposed to be on a business trip, at least to everyone else in my world – and I am still in my blazer, tie, dress pants and white shirt. I am dressed for business not pleasure.
I kneel in front of you, watching your pussy so closely and with fascination. A pussy is a pussy, right? All women have them. Why is yours so different? Why do I love it so?
But I do.
And I kneel there, fixated on the beautiful pink flesh within the soft folds, the dampness, the smoothness, the heady aroma of your nectar still fresh on your body and on my face.
“I want to see you now,” you say to me. “Stand up and get undressed for me.”
I do as I am told, because as much as coming to see you was my fantasy and my desire, I am a guest in your home. I respect your rules inside your four walls.
And I do it because deep down I want you to see just how aroused you have made me.
I stand up, and remove my blazer, carefully draping it over the back of a chair. I undo my tie and lay it on top of my blazer, and then I remove my white shirt, undoing the buttons and draping it on top of my other clothes. I am wearing a white cotton undershirt, and I leave that on while I undo my belt and slide it through the belt loops of my pants and then drop it onto the chair. I undo my pants and slide them down to my ankles, and then step out of the pant legs, taking them off and again draping them on top of the chair. I am in my socks, a pair of red boxers and a white undershirt, and I remove my socks first, then my undershirt, and I stand in front of you, only in my boxers.
“Let me do the rest,” you say, as you stand up from the sofa, your skirt falling down again to cover you modestly, although I know just below the skirt what lies there.
You come up to me, and reach down to my boxers, and you bend down as you slide the boxers off of me, and I accommodate your efforts by stepping out of them.
You bring my boxers to your face and inhale them, and you purr softly, saying “Hmmmm…even your sweat smells sexy…you were sweating on the plane ride, weren’t you? In your crotch…on your balls…your cock…you were hot and sweaty inside these boxers…”
You toss my boxers onto the chair, a perfect shot – a three-pointer.
I stand in front of you naked, my erect cock standing up straight, pointing up toward you, firm and steely, and you grasp my cock with both hands and start to stroke me. Your hands feel soft upon my skin, and rather than handle me roughly or with passion, your touch is tender and soothing. The tenderness of a woman who has been a mother, I think to myself, and whose hands have cradled and soothed babies, and now she touches me with the same gentle reassurance.
You caress me, and fondle my balls in your hands as you also stroke my erection, your gaze fixed upon my eyes and not upon my parts. You look me in the eyes and though you are silent, your gaze speaks to me, saying, “this is what I can do with my hands…imagine my lips and tongue…imagine the softness of my pussy surrounding your hardness…imagine when we are joined together making love…imagine how I will show you how much your cock arouses me…”
Perhaps that is what your gaze is saying. Or perhaps you are just thinking about how wet you were only moments ago, when I was kneeling between your legs and making love to your pussy with my mouth.
Or perhaps you are not thinking of anything at all, and it is just your body communicating with my body, your sex and my sex, speaking their own language.
You stroke me steadily, and although I want to hold on as long as I can, and save my climax for another round, your touch is simply too arousing. Not the rough passions of some of the words we have shared, but a steady and pleasing touch, gentle yet firm, and very knowing.
My cock is growing harder, as it becomes engorged and as I feel my climax approach. I whisper to you and say, “I cannot hold it much longer,” and you say in response, “Don’t hold it back…I want you to just let it go.”
You keep on rubbing my hardness, up and down, playing with the head, and all the while looking at my eyes. I have been leaking pre-cum, and you simply use it to lubricate the head of my cock as you play with it, but not once do you taste it, never once departing from your soft and gentle loving of my cock.
I tense up and stand on my toes as my climax finally arrives, and my warm semen emerges and lands on the floor between us, some of it dribbling down the side of my cock and into your hands which continue to stroke me, sometimes twisting around and rotating on my cock, and your hands become wet and sticky with my ejaculation.
My body is tense and shaking, the feelings so intense, and as you continue to touch me after my climax, the sensitivity of my cock is unreal. I feel electric jolts being sent through my body as you continue to please my hardness, which has not softened even after ejaculating.
You stop and ask me if it was like this in my fantasies before we met, and I tell you that it was nothing at all like my fantasies.
My fantasies couldn’t begin to fathom just how tenderly you would touch me, and they couldn’t begin to fathom just how beautiful you seem to me. I knew you were beautiful before ever seeing you, but now I see that your body, your face and especially your eyes match the beauty of your words and your spirit.
I stand there naked in front of you, as you stand clothed in front of me, and your left hand is still holding my cock, while your right hand reaches out to my shoulder and my neck, and you draw me closer to you so that our bodies are almost touching.
You lean forward and kiss me on my cheek. Then you rest your head on my shoulder and whisper in my ear that if I want to, I don’t have to go to the hotel and I can spend the night with you, or if I want, you will come with me and spend the night in the hotel with me.
My fantasy of seeing you still has a reality, a reality back home, where there are people who may want to reach me and who believe I will be in a hotel, so we both decide it would be best if you come with me and we stay together in my hotel room.
You lead me to your bathroom and we both clean up, before I return to the living room and retrieve my clothes and get dressed. You excuse yourself and go to your bedroom, while I sit on your sofa, thinking about nothing in particular, and then you emerge in about ten minutes with a small bag of your personal effects and a change of clothes.
You come up to me, and I stand up from the sofa to meet you, and as we near each other, you drop your bag to the ground and reach out with both arms and draw me in to you for an embrace. I feel your breasts up against me, even through my shirt and tie and blazer, and even through the sweater you have put on over your blouse. Your breasts feel soft and luscious, though they are still a mystery to me even after the intimacies we have just shared.
We embrace and you kiss me on the lips, for the first time tasting any of me. You smile after we break from the kiss, and your only words are about where we should go for dinner. Nothing about what we have just shared. Nothing about what we might share. Just dinner, telling me about some of the local favorites you have in mind.
A fantasy.
My fantasy. I don’t know what her fantasy is, whether it is made up of quiet and tender moments of intimacy, as in mine, or if her fantasy involves something rough and intense. Or if she even has fantasies at all about me.
This is just my fantasy. It was soft and gentle, although I still don’t know what will happen in the hotel room. It was soft and gentle because in reality, we can all find someone to fuck, someone to give us a ride for our money. That’s what is so beautiful about fantasy. It gives us a chance to find someone and something that will fill our hearts and imagination, and not just someone and something that will fill some time.
I guess I’ll have to apologize to her. That fantasy wasn’t really sordid at all. But I know that even if I haven’t given her exactly what she sought, she’ll still say, “thank you” to me.
That’s just the kind of friend, and woman, she is.
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