A Different Perspective?

I was receiving a vigorous fucking from TLC’s younger brother when I happened to glance over in the full-length mirror that adorns one wall in the bedroom. We were both seconds away from climax and I had my legs high and crossed over his back, while he had his hands hooked under my shoulders and was really going for it. It looked…violent…like we were using one another’s bodies to masturbate into. 

In that nanosecond of time, it seemed to me that I was observing from outside my body and I saw what is actually a really violent exchange. I was being, to use some of the words I’ve heard over the years, slammed, plowed, fucked, shagged, almost raped, but consensually so. I could see his cock briefly before it plunged inside me again and then he came in me which, as it usually does, triggered my own trip into oblivion. It’s something most men will never experience, someone cumming deep inside you. It’s an amazing feeling. Sometimes, you can even feel the semen as it shoots out and hits your cervix which, itself, is twitching with your own cum. You feel his shaft convulsing as he empties his load, and there’s a whole raft of psychological stuff on top of that, but today, I was interested in the physical. And moreover, the….yes, the violence of it sometimes. 

Any girl will tell you that sometimes sex can be unspeakably romantic and gentle. The kissing, the touching, the way he takes hours to slowly build you into readiness before effortlessly slipping inside you. TLC one made love to me like this side by side. There was no vigorous fucking, just a conjoining of bodies and the gentlest of movements until we both orgasmed together. It reduced us both to tears.

But this was base….primal…this was sex of the Neanderthals….quick, powerful, and desperately needed. We fucked like it was our last day on Earth. 

Watching him in that mirror as he rose up above me, he head flung back and obscenities pouring from his mouth conveyed an image of conquest. This is, I know, repugnant to some women, but I suggest only to those who aren’t comfortable with themselves. What, after all, do the words “Fuck me” imply, if it isn’t a demand to have something done to you? 

The room reeked of sex as well. Body sweat, my vagina, his pre-cum and now his semen. Sex has an earthy, tangy scent to it. I, thanks to my highly sensitive sense of smell, can walk into a room where a couple have just had sex, and neatly compartamentalise her scent, his, and even whether he had her anally or not. 

My panties lay on the floor, the wet patch plainly visible. I was wet even before he got here, and I know he likes to see wetness on my panties so, when I knew he was coming, I wore a pair that really shows the moisture. These were dark red, almost burgundy, and my girl cum had turned the crotch almost black. 

Pain? Yes, I do enjoy pain sometimes more than others. We haven’t explored that yet…but we will, I’m sure.

As I looked into that mirror and saw myself being screwed, I wondered, if society wasn’t so…prudish…what it would be like to take the fucking brakes off….to remove that thin veneer of ‘respectability’ and, for a change live ‘unto thine own self be true.’

How many times, I wonder, do people look at me, men or women, I don’t care, and think to themselves “I could fuck her!” Maybe they cast the thought from them instantly or maybe they wank thinking about me, but what if they had the courage of their own convictions and approached me and said, “I’d love to fuck you.” 

What if I had that courage? 

Right now, I’m looking at a new employee. She’s 18, and her name is Burgunday. Yes, I know, odd spelling. Two shocking things actually. Firstly, she’s local and doesn’t have a saint's name. (At least, I don’t think there’s a Saint Burgunday) secondly, she has ‘the look’. The look of a girl who hasn’t even begun to explore the world of sex with others. There’s an…an..atmosphere about her…the way she moves, the innocent face….the light smell of soap but no perfume or deodorant about her and sometimes..only sometimes, I’ve caught (and only because my nose is what it is) the faintest hint of vagina. 

Miss Brain has already painted pictures of her playing with herself, guiltily in bed or in the bath, and has concocted a number of very pleasing scenarios concerning, what I’d love to do with and to her. And, as life does, now and then a tantalising look up her uniform dress, like when she squatted to get some bottles off the bottom shelf. Her panties and a few wisps of pubic hair came into view. 

Ah pubic hair. The stuff that holds vaginal secretions and is, or can be, the source of the most divine smells. Yes, it can get sticky and claggy, but to run one’s nose through the forest of tangley hair while slowly, very slowly inhaling is to die for. Maybe it’s a lesbian thing, but girls tend to do this much, much, much, slower than men do.   

She’s my height too, and blessed, thank God, with even smaller boobs than me! (Who’d have thought it?) I sat there, looking at her, and knowing I’ll never have the pleasure of that firm, young body. I have an inviolable rule - no fucking the staff! But, a girl can dream. Anyway, there’s always the washing machine. Everyone gets spare uniforms and is warned to bring spare underwear too. Drinks can get spilled, and sometimes customers drink too much and vomit. Maybe I’ll get access to her undies. We’ll see. (Each employee has a string bag in which their laundry goes. Saves a ton of time sorting out who owns what, and is way less embarrassing if, say, a girl comes on unexpectedly. Remember, I have male staff too. The bags are discrete enough so you can’t see what’s inside them.) 

I don’t even know where her sexual preference lies….maybe she doesn’t either. She hasn’t talked about a boyfriend or girlfriend, and of course, employers aren’t allowed to ask about such things. Still…..

How I’d love to be able to walk up to her and tell her I’d like to masturbate her….just slip my hand into her panties and explore her between her legs….or that guy sitting in the corner. I’ve no idea why him, but something about him makes me want to screw him. He must be 65 if he’s a day, but age doesn’t bother me.

Or you….why can’t I just walk up to you and be totally honest and true to myself. “I’d like to fuck you. My name’s Anna.”