Let's Play

[davelit]

I get it. After a long day of working and living and expending energy doing whatever we have to do in order to survive, maybe you don't want the attention. You're tired, and no matter which one of us makes dinner, it's everything we can do to get to the couch to relax, our little respite before bed and resting up to do it again tomorrow.

But I can't help the fantasies. Routine and familiarity and fatigue are weights I want to shrug off, in facour of passion and need and excitement. I marinate in you every moment of the day. I enjoy every familiar contour of your body, aching to have my lips and hands on you all day. I thrill in every bit of exposed skin, every stretch of clingy fabric, sneaking in looks and brushes and sordid thoughts in spaces they would never fit.

Would you laugh at the thought, or secretly thrill in it? That the time apart surviving just heightens my need for you. Wanting to grab you, ambush you, devour you, hear the surprised gasp when my lips swallow yours, the thrilling tear of your shirt when I rip it open to get at your bouncing chest, feel the clingy fabric of your leggings as I dive at your hips and bury my face between your legs, crazed hunger just needing to get at your pussy.

Bend you over the counter and push that skirt up, all need and desire and want, to make you feel my need split you again and again and again, not stopping until you're filled and spent, chest heaving and clothes on the floor in a heap.

Shower? Couch? Bed? Against the wall, the door, anywhere I can have you. Any time. I don't want to wait. I can't wait. Let's do it, here and now.

 

[davelit]

He doesn't care, right? You bought the drinks, the snacks, allowed the house to be used as a gathering place (for the umpteenth year in a row). Though "allowed" is a bit of a stretch- he assumed that you would be fine with it, announcing that the party was here (again), sentencing you to a day of tolerating football, quietly annoyed and scrolling in the kitchen.

I have better ideas for you. He doesn't see you, but I do. You have no idea the kind of sordid fantasies you inspire. That those leggings you didn't even think about throwing on have me wondering how it would feel to get my hand in them, knuckles scraping against stretchy fabric as I wrench orgasm after orgasm from your body. That the tastefully snug sweater highlights your curves, wishing my hands could feel them, wondering how your tits would feel over and under them.

Would you be surprised if I ambushed you, strangled gasp against my lips as I drag you back to that kitchen, groping and pawing at you like I imagine doing? You're smart, you see how other men look at how when he doesn't. Do you want that desire, that need, yanking those leggings down to taste you when they're in the next room, your clutching hand in my hair and covered moans frowned out by cheers and celebration? Do you like that I don't want to wait, to get you back to your bedroom to strip and enjoy you like you deserve, push you to the heights of pleasure you haven't felt for far too long.

There's more, if you want it. But while he pounds back another beer, let's enjoy Super Bowl Sunday another way.

 

[davelit]

Something about leggings makes me need to eat you out. And I want you to know. Those deep, animalistic cravings that those snug, sexy pants stir in me. That part of me that wants to enjoy how they cling to your hips, stretching over your thighs, barely hiding the glorious v between your legs that I hunger for. Staring right at your waist, not needing to hide how badly I want you.

No matter where we are or what we're doing, just letting those fantasies marinate and build. That need just bubbling until I have to take you, just dive right at your hips and yank at them, as if the rush of adrenaline could push me to that, ripping your leggings right open and diving between them to feast. Tongue licking at your slit, mouth sucking, lewd wet sounds pushing higher against whatever surprised moans you make at my desperate urges.

Eat. Fuck. Eat. Fuck. Licking and sucking to one peak, hands digging into your ass to keep you where I need as I taste, that desire stirring my own arousal to it's own uncontrollable peak. Needing to split you, empty in you, rutting like an animal, only my want mattering in this moment, this moment brought on by you flaunting your body in tight leggings.

If you like that thought as much as I do, let's chat.

 

[davelit]

Let's stay in this morning. Sure, we have things to do eventually, but no work, nothing we need to do *right now*. Except enjoy each other.

Start with a lazy snuggle, curl up to you, hook my arm around your waist. My hand on your stomach, so close to the swell of your chest under your shirt. I always want to open my palm, feel your breast, caressing becoming squeezing, grinding gently against your body as I feel you up and get more turned on.

Do you like that I get hard against you? Pushing that morning wood against your backside as I fondle you, wanting to draw shallow breaths or soft moans from each of us. That hand, so eager at your chest, sliding down your stomach to where that long shirt ends. Pressing between your legs, before yanking at the hem, needing more from you as we grind.

You'd usually stop me on a work day when I get this urgent, but not today, when you want it like I do. My fingers pressing over your panties, then under, wanting to probe and rub and split you. Kissing your neck, your shoulder, maybe your lips if you turn. Get you on your back so I can come over you and enjoy you more properly, two fingers crooking and sawing under those panties, other hand in your hair, pushing your shirt over your head, barely able to think beyond the wet sound of you.

Do I dive between your legs? Wedge my face between those thighs I've wanted to split all week? Pull or rip those panties to get at your pussy and lick and suck and finger and eat? Would you want that? Or pretend not to as you grip at my hair and let my indulge my hunger for you. Slurping and pushing you to that peak knowing full well I won't stop, that my raging arousal will get what I want no matter what.

Hear the bed creaking, echoing against our groans and grunts when I do take you. Hands full of your tits, pinching hard nipples as my cock splits you, again and again. You're mine to enjoy, and I tell you that, hips smacking as my need for you pushes me. Faster, harder, needy, days of want making this feel so good.

Let's stay in bed this morning for a while. Though you probably wouldn't be safe in the shower after either.

 

[davelit]

It's not breeding, but... I want to keep fucking you. Something about you just stirring that need, to keep burying my cock inside you, mark you, unload again and again into your pussy. It calls to me, this need to mark you, have you, that it's my cock inside you, spurting ropes of cum into you.

It's you that does it to me. Even spent, inside you, your thighs open under me, I felt that baser need, my arousal stirring, grinding, lust in my face and hands as I grind again. Looking at you, needy, desperate, even coming down from one height of pleasure that you brought me to, I need more, want more, crave more. For you to know how badly I want you, how carnally, that I get so fucking pent up I don't want to stop.

From the moment I see you, I don't want to stop. I feel this intensely, this desire for you, to just ignore everything but you, this urgent need to take and ravish and fuck you again and again and again. Against the door, bent over the counter, on the couch, on the bed, in the shower, in the car, I think of it everywhere, all day, marinating in my lust for your body until I can't take it.

I just need to fuck you. I *need* it. To tear your clothes off and enjoy you over and over, until we're both completely spent.

 

[davelit]

I like normal women. Someone who might think they're imperfect, but still feel the urge to get absolutely railed occasionally.

I don't want perfect. Perfect isn't a thing. It doesn't feel real or reachable, or even fun at a point. Sure, it's fun to pretend a little. I can't be this obviously horny in real life, but why not have a scenario that feels real, but something just beyond the grasp of what we have? If that sounds like a time to you, let's chat.

I'm stuck, you're stuck. In a 9-5 that maybe does enough to get by, maybe even enjoy, but doesn't stir the deepest desires we all feel. It doesn't let us indulge those carnal needs that bounce in our brains, claw at whatever control we impart to keep ourselves smiling, working, surviving.

So you're "normal". You have a cellphone, you pay the bills, you're trapped too. You're old enough to have shopped at Costco and know when the samples come out. Maybe you have to go to the gym, maybe you dread it. You're not a model, but I don't want you to be. Maybe you get the odd wandering eye or thought from someone like me, someone who wishes they could stop thinking and surviving and just do it.

You want that, like I do. To be desired that strongly, to have me want you so badly I don't pretend any more. To brazenly ogle your body, feel you up the moment I'm at the door, drilling you bent against the side of your minivan or against the kitchen counter or to feel that thrill when I rip your tank top open and just fucking feast on your chest, reveling and indulging in your body in every way I can think of until we're both completely spent.

So let's break that routine. Take an afternoon away from work, from life, from whatever you're trapped in for me to absolutely ravish you, indulge every sordid fantasy you inspire as you absently fill the cart at the grocery store. If you need that like I do, let's have some fun.

 

[davelit]

We're going to go out, but I'm getting other ideas.

You're fiddling with your earrings, but I barely notice. My eyes are elsewhere, memorizing every curve of you in that outfit you'd poured yourself into.

The earrings are done, and makeup brush floats over your face. You're rambling about Amy, and her husband, how she's likely to be several drinks in by the time you arrive and ranting about how he never pays any attention to her.

There's an irony to that which is probably beyond my thoughts, so absorbed in you as you focus so intently into the mirror. Black turtleneck, deliciously snug, tits jostling deliciously underneath as you finish with your makeup.

You lean a little, pushing your skirt out, a plaid pattern that clings to you as enticingly as the top. Your thighs and legs in black, sheer tights, the hem of that skirt pulled up for a long, heavenly moment, stirring my thoughts even more.

Even covered from head to toe, I'm lusting shamelessly over your body, fantasies marinating in my brain, hands clenching as I lean in the doorway, listening to you talk about the friends you're going to meet, eyes burning into you.

You're getting ready to go out, but I don't want you to. The scent of your perfume hits my nostrils, and it stirs me further. I want take you, grab you before you get to the doorway, hands in your hair and all over you, desperate to force the desire I feel onto you right here and now.

So you're not going out tonight, not if I have anything to say about it.

 

[davelit]

I like normal women. Someone who might think they're imperfect, but still feel the urge to get absolutely railed occasionally.

I don't want perfect. Perfect isn't a thing. It doesn't feel real or reachable, or even fun at a point. Sure, it's fun to pretend a little. I can't be this obviously horny in real life, but why not have a scenario that feels real, but something just beyond the grasp of what we have? If that sounds like a time to you, let's chat.

I'm stuck, you're stuck. In a 9-5 that maybe does enough to get by, maybe even enjoy, but doesn't stir the deepest desires we all feel. It doesn't let us indulge those carnal needs that bounce in our brains, claw at whatever control we impart to keep ourselves smiling, working, surviving.

So you're "normal". You have a cellphone, you pay the bills, you're trapped too. You're old enough to have shopped at Costco and know when the samples come out. Maybe you have to go to the gym, maybe you dread it. You're not a model, but I don't want you to be. Maybe you get the odd wandering eye or thought from someone like me, someone who wishes they could stop thinking and surviving and just do it.

You want that, like I do. To be desired that strongly, to have me want you so badly I don't pretend any more. To brazenly ogle your body, feel you up the moment I'm at the door, drilling you bent against the side of your minivan or against the kitchen counter or to feel that thrill when I rip your tank top open and just fucking feast on your chest, reveling and indulging in your body in every way I can think of until we're both completely spent.

So let's break that routine. Take an afternoon away from work, from life, from whatever you're trapped in for me to absolutely ravish you, indulge every sordid fantasy you inspire as you absently fill the cart at the grocery store. If you need that like I do, let's have some fun.

 

[davelit]

Your pussy isn't safe.

I can't get enough of you. Though you probably know that, backed against the counter, leggings down just enough so I can bury my face in your snatch. Fingers digging into your hips, slurping sounds echoing through the room as my tongue licks the length of your slit, trying to split your lips to get more of your juices. Your fingers in my hair, the effort to try to pull me away having morphed into pulling me to you, your hips grinding to encourage my ravenous appetite as I plunder your depths.

This happens a lot. You encourage it, knowing my weaknesses, the lust for eating you out that cracks through my control more than I should. When my gaze darts to your hips, hiding under a dancing skirt or contouring fabric, pushing my sordid desires to the surface.

You tease, sometimes overtly and sometimes less obviously. I see the hint of a smirk at your gaze, the way your hips swing when you pass by or bend over the counter to present yourself to me. Bringing out that need, my control being tested, aching for the taste of you.

You might have been surprised the first time it happened, back on the couch, skirt up, growling as I pushed your legs open and buried my face in there, the fabric of your panties tearing before my mouth hit paydirt, pulling your hips to my face like a starving man. It wasn't slow, or teasing, or plotted, all appetite and need and lust, wrenching that pleasure from your pussy because I fucking needed to have it.

Your pussy isn't safe. I can't help needing you, eating you out when we the mood strikes, even if it means tearing the crotch of your leggings open and pinning you against the closest wall (something that's happened more than once). So you let me have it, taunting me every day until I take what I want from your pussy, again and again, eating and fucking and eating until I've had enough.

 

[davelit]

Do you want to know what I want? What I'm really thinking, behind polite conversation and small talk that neither of us really cares about? What I think behind occasional glances, taking you in, eyes always coming back to yours because that's what we should do?

I want you. I need you. Even as we talk, after I step away, I picture you, every contour of your body under your clothes. What they would look like, feel like, what you would sound like as I had you. Really had you, the way I truly want. It's not polite or graceful or gentle. Not violent- really- just immediate and urgent and wanton and fucking hot.

I want my lips on yours, even before my hands are on you, all over you, claiming you as mine. Feeling and squeezing and pulling, desperate, not bothering to wait or ask for your permission, even though I know I should. Yanking your pants down, or ripping them if I have too, getting at your pussy, right there. Back against a wall, legs over my shoulders, open to me so I can taste you, lick you, force my lust on you, make you gasp and moan and writhe against me as I fucking take what I want from you.

And why stop there? A floor, a counter, a couch, a bed, a shower, they're all there. I want to be in you, on you, see you flush and fucked and used again and again, for you to know how consumed I am by this need, this desire to have you.

I need you. Let me show you how.