Wanted
- 2 years ago
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Wanted free porn video
(copyright held by the author, February 2003)
The only reason I'd hesitated at taking the apartment - on a beautiful block in east Midtown Manhattan, walking distance to my office, and below-market rent - was that it was not on the top floor, because, after all, one man's ceiling is another man's floor. In the end, I was seduced by the wood-burning fireplace, set in a beautiful, gray marble mantel. I decided I'd take a chance.
I have been fortunate with most of the tenants who rented the apartment above mine. With only two exceptions, they have been very quiet and considerate. And only one was really noisy and inconsiderate, but after I explained to him how cranky I get when I am excessively disturbed, he decided he'd rather live elsewhere than abandon playing Really Bad Disco loud enough to drown out jet engines or the screams of a man who has just had his liver ripped out and displayed to him.
But in six years, much to my disappointment, the only young (i.e., younger than me) women who'd lived in the building were invariably living with someone of the male persuasion. Not that I was neglected, mind you; I had a couple of close friends - and one in particular - of long standing, not to mention strong survival instincts (necessary in this age of killer STDs). If only for aesthetic reasons and the pleasures of the occasional harmless flirtation, however, I really wanted to know why, in the heart of a city that may have more beautiful, available women per square yard than any other in the world, none of them were in my building.
Then Chloe moved in.
Someone was walking around in the vacant apartment upstairs. That was what had awakened me. Over the course of showering, feeding the cat, drinking coffee and checking the news online, I heard heavy footfalls up and down the stairs and occasional muttered grunts of effort. It was a May Friday, around nine in the morning, and glorious sunshine beamed down. As I reached the vestibule doors - both wedged open with books (a good sign) - two large and very good-looking young men were just entering, lugging a steamer trunk.
"Good morning," I said, and stepped back and out of their way. "Just moving in, eh?"
"Not us," replied one, a blond.
"No, just helping a friend who has the heaviest collection of junk on the planet," added the other, a crewcut redhead. Between the two of them, they looked like an ad for the Aryan Nation.
Outside, in a Stanza - with Kansas plates, for crying out loud - was presumably the friend who had the heaviest collection of junk on the planet. At the moment, said friend was kneeling doubled over on the backseat, rummaging among miscellaneous shopping bags and, not incidentally, flexing, through a pair of pale green tights, a pair of buttocks that could have polished a dime.
"Hi! I'm your downstairs neighbor, Michael."
She backed out of the car and stood, turning to me. "I'm Chloe." She smiled. She had a great, soft smile. She was tall, maybe 5-foot-7, had frizzy dark-brown hair pulled back with a band, big brown eyes, an honest nose and slightly overwide lips. But did I mention her smile? Oh. Since she was clad in a baggy sweatsuit, I couldn't even guess at her figure, but that smile was - well, great.
"You don't by any chance have any pets, do you?"
She shook her head. "I thought pets weren't allowed in the building - "
"It's not a problem unless someone complains," I said. "I have a cat."
She raised her eyebrows and looked plainly pensive. "That's... nice."
I chuckled. "It's not a conversational ploy or obsession. Nobody else in the building has pets; I was hoping you might, so we could work a trade."
"I don't understand."
"Take turns looking in on each other's pets. I'm going out of town for a week."
"Oh!" She brightened. "I really wouldn't mind - "
The two guys came out of the vestibule. "Chloe, for someone who had so much stuff to move, that apartment looks pretty bare."
"It's OK; furniture is supposed to start being delivered this afternoon." She turned back to me. "I really wouldn't mind - "
"Naaahhh, that's okay; it's got to be an even trade. I'll get someone in my office to look in on Arnold. I work about five blocks from here." I gave her my card. "Don't hesitate to ask for help or information. Even just to use the phone. Welcome, Kansas."
She blushed and hit me with that smile again.
As matters worked out, I didn't see Chloe again until almost a month later, on a drizzling Monday. We were leaving the building simultaneously. She was, I learned, in her residency at a nearby teaching hospital. Ahhh - that explained why I occasionally found a doctor's greens in the basement laundry room.
"How did you decide to get into advertising?" She asked, as we crossed Lexington Avenue.
"Necessity of food. Some years ago, I learned that it was not a good sign to have your published novels sell fewer copies than your collected poems. So I made the rounds and eventually got a job. You've already adopted some New York traits."
She wrinkled her nose at me and unleashed that five-megawatt smile. She was wearing a light raincoat over loose jeans and a loose blouse. "Such as?"
"Identifying people by their work. At least you didn't ask me my sign." I smiled to let her know it was a joke.
"Oh; you're a Gemini."
I blinked. She had me.
She laughed softly. "Sorry; I couldn't resist. It's adapt or perish."
"No - it's adapt and thrive."
She gave me an odd look. "I like that," she said.
She had to go south on Park, I continued west, and that was that.
It was the Fourth of July in New York City. Which meant I - along with Gina - was jockeying for a good perch from which to see the fabled fireworks display over the East River. (Which is not really a river; it's an estuary - but, I digress.)
Fortunately, Gina had an acquaintance, a "person" (Gina-ese: someone for whom she had the hots) named Karen, a putative artist, who had a studio at the tip of Greenpoint, which is the neighborhood that occupies the northern triangle of Brooklyn bounded by the East River, the Newtown Creek and the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. Greenpoint is a great neighborhood to be from, as in "having left." I speak from experience, here. It took its name from the description of Dutch sailors in the 1600s, who referred to a "green point" of land interrupting the flow of the river. (I mean "estuary." But, I digress.)
So we took the No.7 train (Anyone remember John Rocker? Never mind.) to Long Island City (known as "Lie City" in the Point), and then we walked across the Pulaski Bridge (named for Kasimir Pulaski, the scion of a noble Polish family, who was so swollen with the ideas of Robespierre and Marat that when he learned the colonists in the New World were fighting to establish a land of equality for all [white male property owners] - a radical idea at the time - he sailed to North America and offered his expertise. As the scion of nobility, he'd grown up the way a mascot would grow up in West Point, and he taught the bumbling but undeniably brave and committed hayseeds of the Continental Army how to function as an army, which was a terrible shock to the mercenaries hired by England to quash said bumbling hayseeds... but, I digress) to the Point, since Karen's studio was actually closer on foot that way than taking the G [formerly the GG] to the Greenpoint Avenue station. (Which is yet another digression.)
So we got to Karen's building, and we searched for the entrance - this happens in Greenpoint; don't ask - and in the process we met and cross-introduced ourselves to William and his friend, Christine.
I was struck immediately by two things about William: He was about my age but not carrying the years as well (which I say with no modesty whatsoever), and he was a dweeb. Worse: an overbearing dweeb, but I'll get to that.
Christine struck me a different way. She was wearing faded, baggy denim and an old giveaway ballcap, and she was the most beautiful woman I had every seen face to face.
(Elaboration: I wrote ad copy for a New York City agency that specializes in the fashion industry. I have had occasions to meet some of the most beautiful women in the world who get into the public eye. Christine made all but a few of them look shabby - and the few exceptions didn't come close to Christine.)
Gina summarized it superbly:
"She is the perfect Nordic blonde."
And she was. Maybe eight inches shorter than me, her hair was almost - not quite - platinum. Her complexion was almost but not quite translucent yet glowed with good health. Her eyes were the color of blue ice. And her lips, under the lipstick, were lush, pale and small - in fact, her mouth was small. I guessed she was somewhere between 22 and 26 years old, because there was maturity in her face, yet she still had that wonderful, barely contained vitality that in most people seems to fade out by the 30th birthday. She was wearing jeans that had to have been tailored, because her legs were a bit long for her height. Ahhhh! A flaw! She had a lightweight, matching denim jacket that was unbuttoned over a navy blue tee-shirt. The tee-shirt was tucked into the waist of the jeans and was beautifully filled by breasts so firm that she had to have been wearing a bra, even though no lines showed.
She was so beautiful; I was intimidated. Yes, me, who traded bad puns with Iman (before she got the boob job and a spouse) and got a peck on the cheek from Tyra Banks (who regarded me as a nice-guy-uncle-type, to my extreme displeasure) when she learned it was my 40th birthday. And I won't go into the whole incident with Frederique's broken strap or Claudia laughing herself right out of her dress at the sight of my screen-saver.
As we watched the rockets' red glare over the East (non-)River of what had been a Tory, Loyalist town during the Revolution, it occasionally occurred to me to wonder why Christine was with the dweeb.
But, then I would catch sight of Gina's butt in her jeans - by the light of a bomb bursting in midair - and I would immediately remember: Beautiful women who accept how beautiful they are seldom let go in bed; Gina did. William was probably satisfied just having Christine on his arm, like some gorgeous trinket. Looking at Gina's round, ripe, denim-clad backside really focused priorities for me. There were some things I would rather have on an extremity than Christine on my arm.
After the (truly majestic) fireworks display had ended, one of the other guests gave Gina and me a ride back to Midtown, within a few blocks of my place. We walked, arms around each others' waists, back to my building, climbed the stairs to the third floor and oozed inside with the ease and comfort of people who have been lovers and felt no pressure to perform. We quickly changed into the slouch clothes we preferred when hanging out in my place - old jeans and a Mets tee-shirt (from the days before the appropriately named Third Strike, which was when I joined about 20 million other people and completely gave up on Major League Greedball - but, I digress), and Gina in a long, faded, yellow Road Runner™ sweatshirt and panties (black). It was while changing in my bedroom that Gina made the observation about Christine.
Gina: "What was she doing with that dweeb?"
Me: "He's a painter. Model?"
Gina: "At least."
Me: "Meaning?"
Gina: "Did she give you a hard on?"
Me: "No."
Gina: "That's because you're old."
Me: "Un-uh. I found her intimidating."
Gina (clad only in panties, nipples outstanding): "You?" (Skeptical.)
Me: "You betcha. She's so... beautiful..."
Gina: "She is the perfect Nordic blonde." (Slipping her Road Runner™ sweatshirt over her head, pulling it down to but not covering her hips.) "If I was a guy, she would have given me a hard on."
Me: "Instead you - ?"
Gina: "A wet on, I guess. I hope your tongue is feeling energetic tonight. Want a nightcap?"
I followed her into the living room of my apartment. "If you'll join me."
She rolled her eyes - Gina was very good at this - and pouted. "Michael, you know what happens if I have as much as a half-ounce of alcohol." Gina, like a significant number of people who are of Asian descent, simply couldn't handle alcohol. At best, she would become terribly nauseated; but she could also break out in dreadful hives and have even more serious allergic reactions. All of which made her absolutely nuts when I had an interesting wine, which she could sniff but not taste.
"It was meant as a joke. Ha." Pause. "Ha. Did she really turn you on that much?"
She rolled her eyes again. "Are you totally numb? Michael, she was one of the most beautiful and sexiest women I have ever seen in my life." Gina's nipples were quite hard - sufficiently erect under the heavy material of her Road Runner™ sweatshirt to be visible across the living room.
I couldn't resist. "Don't you wish she was here now?"
"Yeah, just the two of us. Alone, by the fire..."
I ambled closer.
She turned to the liquor cabinet. "Knob Creek?"
"Please. Just the two of you?"
She shrugged, then began putting ice in the glass and poured a drink for me. For some reason, she enjoyed doing this. "What do you care? She intimidated you."
I slipped my arms around her, then slid my hands up under her Road Runner™ sweatshirt and cupped her breasts in my palms. I really liked Gina's breasts; I really, really, liked them; especially when her nipples were hard. (And they were.) Gina stood almost 5-foot-9, and while her bust measured 34 inches, she had a waist measuring just 22 inches, Getting the picture? Gina was into fitness (which was how we met, at a gym - not a "health club"; I digress). But Gina's nipples - !
What can I say? I was mesmerized by them. When Regina Chow was aroused, her nipples swelled out and out and out - almost a full inch, I guessed, thought I never dared presume to suggest measuring. She loved to have those wondrous nipples played with. And I delighted in playing with them. Holding them, rubbing them, very carefully flicking my fingertips across them - she called it "twinking" them - sucking them and licking them and even nibbling them.
At that moment, her nipples were fully swollen - I think "turgid" is the word - and I was savoring the feel of them between my thumbs and forefingers.
"I can feel your chauvinism showing itself," she said softly, wriggling her black-panty-clad butt against my stiffening chauvinism. I nibbled the side of her neck, then slowly licked the little hollow under her ear. "But you're not going to make me stop fantasizing about the beautiful blonde." Then she ground her backside against my fully stiffened chauvinism.
It had been her perfect ass - tiny, especially for a woman as tall as she - in her leotard that had first caught my attention at the gym, followed by her lithe, grace in the ring (Yes, Gina boxed), and then her buzz cut when the helmet came off intrigued me. Her forthright intelligence had cemented my interest. But, the first time I saw her nipples stiffening - within a sweatshirt - I was totally taken with her. Having the aforementioned nipples in my grasp with the above-cited posterior against me would make even a 40-plus ad copywriter get a chauvinism-er of surpassing rigidity, i.e., I had a boner a kitten couldn't scratch.
So, being in the bedroom already and both of us turned on - albeit, for different reasons - what ensued was somewhat predictable. Within five minutes, I was making the most of lips, tongue and (gently) teeth on her spectacular nipples, and five minutes later, my face was between her legs, each hand cupping a taut Gina-cheek and my tongue and lips busily at work on her (very lightly) furred pussy, happily slobbering in her rather copious lubricants. We're talking snorkeling, here.
Gina came only about 60 times in the next 20 minutes, but I can't credit that solely to my skill: Gina was a very orgasmic woman to begin with, and on that occasion she was unabashedly fantasizing about having the "perfect Nordic blonde" between her legs (managing to ignore my beard - but, I digress). I, on the other hand, had not cum, and nothing turns me on more than a woman cumming, preferably with me. So what had begun as an adamantine steel erection was rapidly adding a critical mass in my testicles as an accessory. (Translation: My nuts were overfull. Duh.)
She finally pushed my face away and gasped "That was so good!" She groaned. "Ouch! I think I may have pulled something."
I crawled up next to her and pulled her into my arms, my chauvinism (stiffly) nestling between the aforementioned perfect cheeks. "Sorry," I muttered. I mean, what else can you say at a time like that in response to a statement like that? "So, what did you think of the O.J. civil-trial verdict vis-a-vis the criminal acquittal?" No; I don't think so.
She reached back over her shoulder and caressed the back of my head. "Don't be. I came so good and hard and long, it was worth it." She cranked her face around -
Did I mention Gina's face? She wore no makeup - well, damned little - but with her cheekbones and... Let's just say she had a wonderful face, full of character and strength and too much of both to be "cute," "pretty" or "lovely"; her face was beautiful. And when I eventually learned the experiences she had overcome that had given her so much character and strength, not to mention a preference for women as sex-play partners, it became a face I could easily have fallen in love with. Maybe I did, a little bit - but, I digress.
- and we kissed, gently, on the lips, not much tongue but just, well, "sweetly" comes to mind.
"I really need you inside me," she breathed when we broke the kiss. "You know how I am when I cum so much like that."
Happy happy, joy joy. I nuzzled the tip of my chauvinism up to her pussy. We wriggled and writhed, slipping it slowly into her. ("Slowly" because after Gina came a lot, she was greatly tightened, and I, though not overly long, am a tad thick in that department.)
"Perfect," she wheezed when I was all the way in. I had reluctantly relinquished the grip of one hand (left) on one breast (left) with accompanying nipple and slipped it down to toy with her swollen labia (lips) and clitoris (love nubbin, et cetera).
We began to undulate, like a twinned serpent, slowly and appreciatively: her, of the way I filled her, and me, of the way she had clamped onto my penis and begun pulling on it with her athletic pussy.
"I'm, uh, not gonna last long," I warned. (Panted, really.)
"Will - UH - you take - UH - care of - UH - my needs?"
"Guaranteed."
"Let go."
Her wish, et cetera. Hearing those words was the last thing my self-control needed. I let go. And then some. I came hard in her. I kissed the back of her neck as the spasms ended and waited till my wilting chauvinism slid out of her, then kissed my way down her back, between her buttocks and used my hands on her slender hips to urge her to turn over. Still panting slightly, she did, swinging one long leg over my head and shoulders till I was back between her lanky and tremulous thighs, my lips and tongue confronted with her swollen and still-hungry cunt. Not to mention, my fresh sperm. I didn't mind - haven't since I was 30 (but, I digress). I chowed down, so to speak. But, I knew what she really craved.
I slipped one hand from beneath her butt to her cunt, wriggling a finger inside, then - quickly - a second. And then, in about a minute, a third.
"Oh, yeah! Oh, yeah!"
My pinky slid inside with a bit o' twisting.
"All! More!"
Many people have the idea that all women of Asian descent have tiny, tight pussies. I knew - and know - better. Even slender Gina could have a capacious cunt (
Trisha
- 29.08.2021
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