Le Jacquelope
Loves Spam
- Joined
- Apr 9, 2003
- Posts
- 76,445
Or, why you should NOT drag a man out to shop for clothes when there's a chance you might get horny...
The next time you drag a guy into Nordstrom's and he wants to stay home, be warned. He might walk all around the store for ten minutes while you pick out that sexy little ankle-length tiered skirt and wait good until you take him over to look at some new panties.
He'll point you to a pair that you really love. Then he'll point you over to that slip you've always wanted. And that really nice sexy comfortable bra. And those nice ankle-strap low heeled thong sandals.
You might even think he's being sweet and considerate offering to help you out in the changing room, but ummm, beware.
Before you know it, he's peppering you with compliments. And the bullshit meter isn't going off - because he means it.
The trap is sprung.
He's got you completely changed into your tiered skirt and your panties, and you're checking out your sandals when he kneels to help strap them around your feet.
His hands slide up and down your feet as he's fastening the hooks, sending faint tingles up your spine.
Tenderizing you.
Then he offers more of his touch, caressing your legs with his hands and your mind with his words, adoring your figure.
You may notice him lifting your skirt, but hey, he's complimenting you on how good you look in it. That tingling gets stronger, and your common sense, being inversely related to your level of arousal, slowly wanes.
Before you know it, he's commenting on your new panties... under the darkness of your skirt.
Then he's rubbing his nose against it, moaning softly about how silky soft your panties are.
Uh oh.
By now you're not just tingling, you're dizzy with arousal.
Your senses finally realize the trap that has been sprung and you try to grab his head to push him back...
... but your hands rebel.
They push his head closer.
Either your body knows of his oral skill, or you have desperately craved to know it.
Either way, right now you are becoming the proverbial heroin addict. And his face in your crotch is the metaphorical hit your body craves.
Besides, a little bit of stimulation can't hurt. You're okay, you'll just stop him before it goes too far. Right?
So you grab the back of his head under the skirt. Just a little hit. It won't hurt. Just a little.
He angles his head up; and slowly, his nose and lips grinding against your panties, making your insides clench hungrily, releasing the earthy scent of your warm juices. The aroma makes him moan loudly, his voice vibrating through your vagina, until you shudder with need.
Oh, there's no way you're stopping right now.
You spread your legs, bend him slightly backwards and stand right over his mouth, his face now an impromptu throne for your pleasure. As long as his spine doesn't protest, it's all good. So you plant your hands on the wall and go to work, rolling your hips, grinding, thrusting.
Masturbating.
Your panties become slick with your juices as you pump firmly across his chin, lips and nose, using his face to massage your slit and frig your clit to satisfaction, swirling and gyrating to find the right contours to get off on. You feel him kissing you down there repeatedly; you reach down to aim his nose at your clit, and then once he gets the hint, you settle in and pump steadily, rhythmically, all the while pursing your lips to keep from being noisy.
Your body can sense your lover's head tilted up beneath your crotch, his hands caressing your legs gently as he patiently lets you ride. You're on a sightseeing trip through paradise by now, stars shooting off in front of your eyes as your vagina spasms and clenches happily as you continue to bear your ecstasy in almost breathless silence.
Now you can hear yourself slurping all over his face. You grin proudly, not caring to lift your skirt to see; you just want to hear how much wetter you can get his face. And so the squishing and slurping gets louder and sloppier.
Then, before you know it... you cum.
Your thighs clench his head as you try to steady yourself against the wild spasms going on inside you. Your body shudders and you breathe hard out through your nose, still trying not to scream as all other rational thoughts fly to the wind.
Your thighs become slippery with your cum running down his cheeks. Rivulets run down your legs to your feet as you hold his head and shoulders prisoner between between your legs, grinding hard on his face to keep you at your peak until you finally finish up on his face and let out a long, happy, satisfied groaning sigh.
Sated. Totally and uninhibitedly sated.
He sucks your crotch until logic and reasoning floods back at you with a vengeance, hitting you with a tsunami of embarrassment, shock and fear.
You move off of him and gasp, lifting your skirt to feel your panties. They're sticky, slippery and soaked. Your lover's entire face is a glistening, frothy wet testament to how well he'd just pleasured you. Your cum runs down his neck; there are droplets on his shirt, and even on the thighs of his jeans. Your thighs are drenched down to your ankles. Your thick, warm cum is even pooling between the soles of your feet and your sandals. The fitting room smells like pussy. A horny, satisfied pussy.
You can't help but grin as you stand upright and feel the squishy wetness of your inner thighs pressed together. You came really good. And left a good and sloppy wet mess all over your lover's face, no less.
But now why is he smiling?
Is it his cum-frosted face?
Oh shit... no, it's not. It's that you have to go outside and purchase these clothes you just made such a fabulous mess in.
God dammit. He got you... and he got you good.
The next time you drag a guy into Nordstrom's and he wants to stay home, be warned. He might walk all around the store for ten minutes while you pick out that sexy little ankle-length tiered skirt and wait good until you take him over to look at some new panties.
He'll point you to a pair that you really love. Then he'll point you over to that slip you've always wanted. And that really nice sexy comfortable bra. And those nice ankle-strap low heeled thong sandals.
You might even think he's being sweet and considerate offering to help you out in the changing room, but ummm, beware.
Before you know it, he's peppering you with compliments. And the bullshit meter isn't going off - because he means it.
The trap is sprung.
He's got you completely changed into your tiered skirt and your panties, and you're checking out your sandals when he kneels to help strap them around your feet.
His hands slide up and down your feet as he's fastening the hooks, sending faint tingles up your spine.
Tenderizing you.
Then he offers more of his touch, caressing your legs with his hands and your mind with his words, adoring your figure.
You may notice him lifting your skirt, but hey, he's complimenting you on how good you look in it. That tingling gets stronger, and your common sense, being inversely related to your level of arousal, slowly wanes.
Before you know it, he's commenting on your new panties... under the darkness of your skirt.
Then he's rubbing his nose against it, moaning softly about how silky soft your panties are.
Uh oh.
By now you're not just tingling, you're dizzy with arousal.
Your senses finally realize the trap that has been sprung and you try to grab his head to push him back...
... but your hands rebel.
They push his head closer.
Either your body knows of his oral skill, or you have desperately craved to know it.
Either way, right now you are becoming the proverbial heroin addict. And his face in your crotch is the metaphorical hit your body craves.
Besides, a little bit of stimulation can't hurt. You're okay, you'll just stop him before it goes too far. Right?
So you grab the back of his head under the skirt. Just a little hit. It won't hurt. Just a little.
He angles his head up; and slowly, his nose and lips grinding against your panties, making your insides clench hungrily, releasing the earthy scent of your warm juices. The aroma makes him moan loudly, his voice vibrating through your vagina, until you shudder with need.
Oh, there's no way you're stopping right now.
You spread your legs, bend him slightly backwards and stand right over his mouth, his face now an impromptu throne for your pleasure. As long as his spine doesn't protest, it's all good. So you plant your hands on the wall and go to work, rolling your hips, grinding, thrusting.
Masturbating.
Your panties become slick with your juices as you pump firmly across his chin, lips and nose, using his face to massage your slit and frig your clit to satisfaction, swirling and gyrating to find the right contours to get off on. You feel him kissing you down there repeatedly; you reach down to aim his nose at your clit, and then once he gets the hint, you settle in and pump steadily, rhythmically, all the while pursing your lips to keep from being noisy.
Your body can sense your lover's head tilted up beneath your crotch, his hands caressing your legs gently as he patiently lets you ride. You're on a sightseeing trip through paradise by now, stars shooting off in front of your eyes as your vagina spasms and clenches happily as you continue to bear your ecstasy in almost breathless silence.
Now you can hear yourself slurping all over his face. You grin proudly, not caring to lift your skirt to see; you just want to hear how much wetter you can get his face. And so the squishing and slurping gets louder and sloppier.
Then, before you know it... you cum.
Your thighs clench his head as you try to steady yourself against the wild spasms going on inside you. Your body shudders and you breathe hard out through your nose, still trying not to scream as all other rational thoughts fly to the wind.
Your thighs become slippery with your cum running down his cheeks. Rivulets run down your legs to your feet as you hold his head and shoulders prisoner between between your legs, grinding hard on his face to keep you at your peak until you finally finish up on his face and let out a long, happy, satisfied groaning sigh.
Sated. Totally and uninhibitedly sated.
He sucks your crotch until logic and reasoning floods back at you with a vengeance, hitting you with a tsunami of embarrassment, shock and fear.
You move off of him and gasp, lifting your skirt to feel your panties. They're sticky, slippery and soaked. Your lover's entire face is a glistening, frothy wet testament to how well he'd just pleasured you. Your cum runs down his neck; there are droplets on his shirt, and even on the thighs of his jeans. Your thighs are drenched down to your ankles. Your thick, warm cum is even pooling between the soles of your feet and your sandals. The fitting room smells like pussy. A horny, satisfied pussy.
You can't help but grin as you stand upright and feel the squishy wetness of your inner thighs pressed together. You came really good. And left a good and sloppy wet mess all over your lover's face, no less.
But now why is he smiling?
Is it his cum-frosted face?
Oh shit... no, it's not. It's that you have to go outside and purchase these clothes you just made such a fabulous mess in.
God dammit. He got you... and he got you good.
