What if

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What I am to you is not real.

I am the forbidden. I am the unknown. I have many faces and none.

Sometimes I am the cute guy at the coffee machine at work. Sometimes I am the well groomed older businessman on the train. Sometimes I am the sulky looking checkout girl in the supermarket. Sometimes I am the two builders that you see on the way to work, one older, one younger.

I am inside your head when you wake. I am inside your head when you go to sleep. I am there when you masturbate. I am even there when you have sex.

Sometimes it’s unintentional. Merely a fleeting thought. Sometimes it isn’t. When you keep your eyes closed more than normal. When you keep your hands off his body. When he has you from behind.

Except sometimes it’s not him. Because sometimes it’s me.

Me that is in your head. Me that turns you on like a light bulb. Me that is in your body. Me that is fucking you hard on your knees. Me that makes you come over and over.

I am a fantasy. Yet what I am to you is sometimes what you need.


You could be anyone. Married or single. An executive or a school teacher. You could be somebodies secretary or a student or a stay at home mother of three.

I don’t care. It doesn’t matter. The outcome will still be the same.

What’s more, you know it. Know that in a minute I will undress you. That when I do I will find you wet and ready for me. The thrill of the situation too much.

But at the moment you are playing it cool. Trying to remain calm. Trying to control the fluttering of your pulse. Trying to remain still even though you are so on edge that you wonder how you are able to sit at all.

Watching the conflicting emotions on your face turns me on. Makes me hard. How many women out there have had this same particular fantasy? How many have actually fulfilled it?

I haven’t even asked your name, nor have I volunteered my own.

The hotel suite is extravagant. High ceilinged and cavernous. A Parisien inspired courtesans boudoir. All oil paintings, glass chandeliers and feather trimmed lamps. The focal point the giant four poster bed on which you sit.

The air is rich with the history of the place. It permeates everything. From the leather of the chaise longue to the heavy velvet of the curtains. The scenes that must have played out in this very room. The scandalous courtesan entertaining her infamous clients. The highest members of society. Perhaps even royalty?

My own breathing comes a little shallow now, sensing it is nearly time. Nearly, but not quite Çankaya Escort yet. At the moment we are both just savouring the moment. The anticipation of what is to come.

There is very little that I could find more exciting than the look in your eyes as you sit, fully clothed on that bed. That intoxicating combination of trepidation and excitement.

I wonder if you are aware of your own appearance. How huge your eyes look. How flushed your face is. The way it spreads down your throat to your chest. Drawing my eye to where it disappears beneath your clothes.

You are not the first. Far from it. There have been many. Hundreds. Thousands. More? I do not keep count. Yet each one has been special. Unique.

I am not arrogant but I am accustomed to getting what I want.

Sometimes I meet them on trains, in bars or in offices. In coffee shops or supermarkets. There are no rules.

But I have come to recognise a certain type of woman and I am not without skill. I can hold a conversation. I know when to push and when to back off.

Sometimes I am charming, sometimes I am flirty. Sometimes I am bold and brash and sometimes I am fickle and impulsive. But there always comes that point.

There was once a girl whose hair became caught in her coat as I was holding it up for her to put on. I knew from the moment my fingertips touched the back of her neck as I freed her hair.

There was once a girl in a library that I teased mercilessly about her spectacles. Another whose paper I borrowed on a train.

Sometimes it is a brush of fingertips as you open a door. A hand on your waist or a fleeting moment of eye contact across a meeting room.

But when it happens you know. When it happens. On some level at least, you both know.

What if you were to follow that instinct?

Instead of blushing self consciously and moving on with your day. Instead of giving that little half smile and averting your eyes. Instead of finding yourself replaying the incident in your head that night as you lay in bed. Your fingers creeping down between your legs. Vaguely shocked at your own arousal.

What would happen if you were curious enough, or excited enough, or adventurous enough to follow that instinct and convention be damned?

Maybe you would end up here. With me. On a strange bed. In a strange hotel room. With a man you don’t know.


You are watching me now. Your eyes wide and expectant. You open your mouth as though you are about to speak but I hold Keçiören Escort up my hand as if to say it’s ok, or don’t move, or trust me.

I move slowly toward you. You inhale a litle but don’t move. The muscles in your neck roll up slightly as I lean in.

It’s so much simpler this way. Primal. Carnal. You will not see me again. We do not need to make small talk. It is not about mutual respect or emotional connection or sexual equality or what other people will think. We don’t need to do dinner or drinks.

You let out a soft moan as finally, we kiss.

It takes all of my willpower not to just slam you down on the bed there and then and have you hard and fast. Your skirt up around your hips. You are so fucking sexy. Even though we have done nothing more than kiss I am almost overcome with lust. But I have more willpower than that.

I can sense your need for me to take charge. To take you.

Our kissing becomes rougher, your tongue in my mouth. I bring my hand up, tangling it in your hair. Your arms now around my neck.

I tug your head back hard, making you gasp as my mouth goes now to your jaw, your neck. I kiss my way down, then slowly back up to your ear.

My free hand goes to your breast, squeezing. Seeking a stiff nipple through your clothes, finding it. You moan as I pinch, hard and I growl into your ear at the sound.

Your own hands are busy as well. Dragging my shirt from the waistband of my trousers. Fiddling with the top few buttons. I break away briefly, allowing you to yank it up and over my head. Your hands instantly going to the strong, solid muscles of my shoulders.

I wrap both arms around your waist. Push you roughly back on to the bed, my leg between yours as we continue to kiss. My hand roaming beneath your blouse now onto your bare stomach.

You bring your hands up to my chest, pushing lightly against me and I pull back fleetingly. You look like you are going to ask me to slow down or stop but your body and eyes tell a different story.

You want it. No, need it. Can’t stop thinking about it. You want me to take charge. To be fucked and fucked well.

I pull away. Tell you to hold your legs back and apart. I tease you. Stroking your skin. My hot breath against your flesh. Close enough that it makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

You do not need to have any inhibitions here. You can say or do anything you like and I will not judge you.

Every inch of your skin feels hypersensitive. Every touch Etimesgut Escort of my fingertips makes you want to moan.

In your head you are begging for me to fuck you.

Please, Please, Please, Please.

I will make you say it. Please. I will make you beg. Whimper. Moan. Scream. I will make you come. Over and Over. Until your legs are quivering and your stomach muscles are aching.

I will fuck you until you are begging me to come inside you.

You can do whatever you want. Talk dirty. Ask me to take you from behind. Talk about another woman. Another man. Someone watching. Anything.

But right now I have to have you. I practically rip your clothes off in my need. You lay back, naked. Chest heaving, heart pounding.

I straighten. Remove the last of my own clothing. Kiss you again as my hand moves down your body, across your breasts. Teasing one hardened nipple briefly with the tip of a finger.

Without warning I grab both your wrists. Drag your arms up above your head and pin you to the bed with my weight. I use my knees to pry your legs apart so that you can feel the press of my hard cock against you.

You struggle against me briefly. Enough to show some token resistance but not enough to make me think you want me to stop.

I pause. Move into position. You feel like silk, so wet and open. The tip of my cock strokes briefly against your clit, making you gasp. Sexy little bitch.

I don’t tease for long. With a quick, deep, sudden thrust I enter you fully. You moan as you stretch around me, muscles squeezing around my shaft.

You bring your legs up and wrap them around my waist as I begin to fuck you deep and hard. Your arms still pinned above your head.

You want me deeper. Want to show me how much you love it. How crazy it makes you. How much it turns you on.

I give you what you crave. Without you asking or saying a word. On your back. My body on top of you. So deep inside. Stretching you out.

I love fucking you. Love that you are so wet and excited. Love the way you feel, all hot and tight and slippery.

Above all, I fucking love the noises you make as I ram you. So sexy. They make me want to come inside you. To fill your hot little cunt.

You grab at me as your orgasm draws close. I push your legs back over your head. Deeper. Harder. Pounding into you until you can contain yourself no longer.

When you come, you come hard. Wave after wave engulfing you. Setting me off too. Pushing my face into your hair, mouth open, lips parted and pressed against your neck. I come for a long time. Shuddering against you as if my whole body is emptying itself into yours.

Finally we both calm a little and I release your legs. You can feel me still moving a little inside you. Still hard. Not done yet. You look up at me then, your skin flushed, pupils dilated.

It’s going to be yet another long night.

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