Still Beautiful - Sex Stories

Still Beautiful

Candles, ten tea lights, cast glowing warmth. Warmth fills a tub of clear water. Tap waters marry and whip liquid soap streams into frothy bubbles of sandalwood wrapped in vanilla. Vanilla bean beads of goodness baptize my hectic hell on this day. Today, daylong pressures made camp on my shoulder. Achy shoulders, my shoulders balance boulders and hold up weighty bags of issues that cause the cogs in my joints to lock and block me from maintaining my normal sexilicious stride. Those strides made thick calluses that plague the balls of my feet, which I consider a privilege. A privilege it is... and a rite of passage for a woman, me, to rock cause-‘em-to-gawk hooker heels. Mmm. Healing heels, ankles, calves, and thighs soften from soaking and floating in a porcelain boat of block-out-the-bullshit, right now. Now, relaxation stains strained muscles, and lust chokes innocent intentions. Initial intentions involved getting clean, but now my cul-de-sac calls for immediate attention. Attention beckons relief, propels uncontrollable urges, because of a recalled assurance, a seed you watered last night... Still Beautiful I smile and wonder... “Uh, who gave you permission to enter my tub, my thoughts?” My thoughts beg my hands to feed and nurture the affirmation you ...

... whispered in my ear last night just before I closed my eyes. I close my eyes, now. I am helpless now, surrounded by wetness now, yet thirsty for your touch, your caress, your knuckles knocked flush against my vee lips. Illusions of a knock-knock and a cracked door precede your mile-long smile with smizes, your nine inch growing protrusion, your mushroom-capped rocket breaking through the darkness. Dark desperation overshadows last night’s shadow and foreshadows the penetration of not just a finger, but the sum total of all four fingers pressing deep into my cul-de-sac. My cul-de-sac is caught in a concentration gradient grasping for last night’s thrusts and reaching into right now throbs. Throbbing increases with my quickened pulse, as my fingers attempt to match the thickness and weight you delivered. And my hand feels for mammary, symmetry that once was and is no longer. A long concave badge now resides in the place where ripened rubenesque dwelled... And instead of dwelling on what was, I push deeper into into my cul-de-sac, stretching and fulfilling the seed you watered. I water and concentrate on that which is, because I am indeed... Still Beautiful. ©2014 Tamar A Doll. This story may not be reproduced in any manner, without the express permission of the author.