Stories tagged with "cumshot"
French Kissing
Two old friends resolve the sexual tension between them in a French museum.
I used to date a cop. His name was Thomas. He was in his 40s, and he worked in the narcotics division. one of his biggest hobbies was researching local crime history, especially crimes involving prohibition in the 1930s. His interest and his knowledge of it made him a kind of celebrity historian. So picture this, Thomas, my cup boyfriend, dressed in a dark blue suit that framed his strong slender body, and picture him wearing aviator shades. His arms folded across his chest, sitting comfortably in an antique room with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. This is how he was photographed for a men's fashion magazine. They were doing feature stories on law enforcement officials who had made significant contributions to the history of crime in America. The editors couldn't resist. And now this is how I always see him. Once when we first started seeing each other, we went hiking at a wildlife refuge that 75 years or so ago was a working farm. It was a sprawling 700 acres of lush farmland rimmed with large stands of old-growth trees, and you could walk the trails or the old road for miles and never run into anyone. The temperature had dropped into the 40s by early afternoon, but we headed out onto the trails anyway, enjoying the crisp air and the way the low-hanging clouds muffled our voices. Neither of us was dressed warmly enough for the weather. So we walked through Sycamore and sugar maples, watching their reset leaves floating down from the sky, his arm around my shoulders, holding me close, as much for affection as he was for warmth. He'd recently told me about this place, about little cabins tucked into the hillsides. Some were furnished and used by hunters in the depths of winter when the cold and snow kept them from finding their way out. Most of the cabins are very old, built sometime in the mid-1800s, and used by moonshiners and fugitives as a safe hiding place—that day. I hope to find one. Thomas put his gloved hand around the back of my neck and shook me gently, playing. I looked up at him. Black knit cap pulled down around his ears, and a cigarette clasp between his lips. I heard a while back he said that in the 1930s, some bootleggers came out here and hidden one of the cabins; think about it, though, is that they were a couple. A couple I asked What do you mean, like Bonnie and Clyde? Well, yeah, something like that, he said and stopped. We were standing in a clearing at the crest of a hill looking out across countless miles of field and forest. In the very far distance, we could see a thin trail of smoke rising from some farmhouse far in the distance. As we stood there, he told me how the bootleg couple had made their way through the woods one winter during their escape from the city police. They had been in love. And it only returned to bootlegging as a way to survive after the wake of the depression. They've never been violent, but it only been caught transporting liquor into town. And so on that snowy winter day in the 1930s. The couple found their way to one of the little cabins. There they pass the time making love on the floor in front of the wood-burning stove. He would caress her sweet face hot from the fire and lightly kiss her forehead and then her lips while she lovingly stroked to strong, lean thighs. And then, with a cold dark night including the little cabin-like a fist, he would lower her gently to the floor, part her legs, and enter her body with abandon, as though she with a last warm and welcoming place on Earth. After many days, a couple of us found and chased from the safety of the cabin. They ran hand in hand through the woods, climbing over stone walls and scrambling into the snowy undergrowth until they came to the riverbank and could go no farther. There. They waited as the sounds of the police grew closer to them, the howling of the dogs echoing through the forest like the banging of wolves, and they stood there at the river's edge. The icy water rushing past like time, they looked and looked at each other with tearful desperation, knowing that this was the last time they would see the other alive. And then, without a word between them, they plunged headlong into the frigid water and let it carry them embracing away from all danger away from the world that had been so callous, so cold, and so cruel. We have to find that cabin, I said. You've got to take us there. Thomas looked at me squarely, raised his eyebrows, and said, it's kind of a pull from here, you realize that? I don't care. I said we've got to find it. It's like paying homage to that couple, don't you think? I suppose he said as he crapped me around the waist. I'd do anything to make you happy. After about an hour of hiking, we finally came To a little cabin at the edge of a clearing. It looked every bit as old as I'd imagined but just smaller. In fact, it looked more like an old corn crib. The knotty wood was mostly covered in moss, and the glass and the two small windows were cloudy with dust. We opened the door and duct as we walked through the threshold. Thomas went first and pulled a tiny lantern from his pack and illuminated the dim little space. The light revealed a sparse room with an old black wood-burning stove, a small round table with two chairs, and a strange wooden platform bed that was surely designed for sleeping bags. There was a counter near one of the windows and some cabinets, and in the corner, we found a shovel and a broom without saying a word. We looked at each other, smiled, and set to work cleaning the room. I knocked the cobwebs from the rafters while Thomas started to prepare a fire in the stove. Before long, we had it looking and feeling much more hospitable than it had been. The musty smell was replaced by the amber tinge aroma of burning hickory wood that cracked and sizzled in the iron stove. We hadn't packed sleeping bags, so we made a bed on the platform using our coats and the extra clothing Thomas had in his pack. It wasn't much of a bed, but it didn't matter because the room had become warm and comfortable. When we finished with the preparations, I sat cross-legged on the bed; Thomas approached me, pulling a sweater over his head. Then he leaned down over me, taking my mouth, and his sucking my lips as I stroked his chest. With one hand, he fumbles the buttons of his pants, and I helped him feeling his hardness through the denim. He never stopped kissing me as I slid my hands through the zipper, freeing his massive direction. I caressed it. I massaged the arrow-shaped crest at the tip, spreading the pre comb over his skin with my thumb. He searched in my hands and kissed me harder, but I pulled away I pulled away to bury my lips in his chest. His erection was throbbing as I made my way down his belly and finally to his cock. I slid it into my mouth, all of it down to the base and up again, the tips of my fingers dancing lightly just ahead of my lips, sliding softly up and down his shaft. He lifted me onto the bed, pulled off my pants, and then slid effortlessly inside me just enough to apart my lips. Then he pulled out and ripped the head of his penis up and down my lips, circling my clit before he plunged into me, pushing my legs back with his hands so that my knees were by my ears. All of his weight was on the backs of my thighs as he penetrated me slowly at first and then harder and more vigorously. I felt him growing inside me, throbbing. When suddenly, he pulled out again. I reached down and let him up to my breasts and then back into my mouth. And as I circle to shaft with my tongue, he climaxed, and I took him in all of it. Afterward, we fell asleep together on that makeshift bed naked in front of the little wood-burning stove that made the lonely space so warm again. And that night, I dreamed of the lovers who had been in that very same cabin so many years before. They're ghosts lingering in the shadows, pleased perhaps by our lovemaking or soothed by our presence. Either way, finally free to escape this world happily into the next.
Rating: 4.7/5 (total: 45)
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