Hi there,
I’m an intelligent, witty, sexy guy in my early 30s who loves sensuality, teasing, and foreplay--both giving and receiving. When the time is right, I can be plenty dirty and nasty, but I think the difference between good sex and mind-blowing sex can be a long, intense build-up so that we are both desperately horny and hopelessly lost in our lust for each other.
So, take a look below for the beginning of the kind of fantasy that I think can lead up to something pretty fantastic. And, if you’re interested in getting to know a fun, sexy, smart guy, feel free to PM me. If we hit it off, we can maybe slip into something a little more comfortable like Yahoo IM, Skype or the phone. Let’s find out how much we can turn each other on and how hard we can make each other cum.
---------------
You’ve been glancing at me all night as I’ve sipped my scotch-and-sodas. And I’ll admit it, I’ve been stealing a few looks at you, too. I travel a lot for work and find myself alone in hotel bars like this pretty often, so I’ve gotten into the habit of making up stories in my head about intriguing strangers—and you, my dear, are decidedly intriguing. I’ve decided you’re at the end of a brutal work week and in desperate need of some relaxation. I’m not giving you a specific occupation in my story, but I know you’re dedicated to your job. Maybe a lawyer or an accountant. Maybe you’re in sales. Maybe a teacher. Maybe just a mom. But whatever you do, you’re not doing it tonight. You’re on your fourth martini and maybe that’s why you look directly at me, making eye contact... before distinctly rolling your eyes and looking away. And then I get it: we both have too much respect for ourselves to give in to any of the traditional ways of showing mutual interest. No lame one-liners, no clichéd cues. This situation calls for something more unorthodox, less predictable.
I grab a cocktail napkin and scribble something onto it before folding it and handing it to the bartender with a brief instruction. We make eye contact again as he walks over and hands it to you. You look down and unfold it: “I won’t insult you by asking if I can buy you a drink. But I think you should buy me a drink instead.”
You look at me again, shutting your eyes and shaking your head. But you turn and whisper something to the bartender before sliding off your barstool and grabbing your drink. You saunter over to me--I couldn’t see anything below your waist before, but now I cannot help noticing how tight your little black dress is hugging your gorgeous curves as my eyes glide from your toes up to your head just once. You click your tongue a few times as you slip up onto the stool next to me.
"Come on, sweetie. It’s a little cliché to check me out like that," you say quietly, leaning in to me. I blush a little, already losing at our little game.
"It’s a little cliché for you to wear something like that to a place like this in the first place, don’t you think?" I retort. Your eyes widen for a second, but then you just exhale and cock your head, changing the subject by waving that napkin I wrote on in my face.
"Is this really the best you can do?" you ask. I detect more than a little venom in your voice, but I’m convinced it’s part of the game. A moment later, the bartender walks over and places an appletini in front of me. He smiles at me, glances at you and walks away. I turn to you, grinning, as you lean in again.
"There’s your drink. Enjoy."
"Touche." I dip my head toward you before I take a sip.
"And when you’re done, you can guess what color my panties are," you whisper. My heartbeat speeds up, but my eyes never leave yours as I smoothly tip the glass up and down the drink in one swallow.
Placing the glass down on the bar again, I smirk, whispering "My guess is... you’re not even wearing any panties. And that might be the biggest cliché of all."
You take my hand and guide it under your short dress. I can feel your wet lips against my fingertips. I stroke them gently before pushing them apart just slightly and slipping the tip of my index finger inside you. A short, quiet gasp escapes your lips, inaudible to anyone but me. You stifle it instantly and reply in a breathy whisper: "Well, I can live with one or two clichés. Can’t you?"
To be continued... ?
I’m an intelligent, witty, sexy guy in my early 30s who loves sensuality, teasing, and foreplay--both giving and receiving. When the time is right, I can be plenty dirty and nasty, but I think the difference between good sex and mind-blowing sex can be a long, intense build-up so that we are both desperately horny and hopelessly lost in our lust for each other.
So, take a look below for the beginning of the kind of fantasy that I think can lead up to something pretty fantastic. And, if you’re interested in getting to know a fun, sexy, smart guy, feel free to PM me. If we hit it off, we can maybe slip into something a little more comfortable like Yahoo IM, Skype or the phone. Let’s find out how much we can turn each other on and how hard we can make each other cum.
---------------
You’ve been glancing at me all night as I’ve sipped my scotch-and-sodas. And I’ll admit it, I’ve been stealing a few looks at you, too. I travel a lot for work and find myself alone in hotel bars like this pretty often, so I’ve gotten into the habit of making up stories in my head about intriguing strangers—and you, my dear, are decidedly intriguing. I’ve decided you’re at the end of a brutal work week and in desperate need of some relaxation. I’m not giving you a specific occupation in my story, but I know you’re dedicated to your job. Maybe a lawyer or an accountant. Maybe you’re in sales. Maybe a teacher. Maybe just a mom. But whatever you do, you’re not doing it tonight. You’re on your fourth martini and maybe that’s why you look directly at me, making eye contact... before distinctly rolling your eyes and looking away. And then I get it: we both have too much respect for ourselves to give in to any of the traditional ways of showing mutual interest. No lame one-liners, no clichéd cues. This situation calls for something more unorthodox, less predictable.
I grab a cocktail napkin and scribble something onto it before folding it and handing it to the bartender with a brief instruction. We make eye contact again as he walks over and hands it to you. You look down and unfold it: “I won’t insult you by asking if I can buy you a drink. But I think you should buy me a drink instead.”
You look at me again, shutting your eyes and shaking your head. But you turn and whisper something to the bartender before sliding off your barstool and grabbing your drink. You saunter over to me--I couldn’t see anything below your waist before, but now I cannot help noticing how tight your little black dress is hugging your gorgeous curves as my eyes glide from your toes up to your head just once. You click your tongue a few times as you slip up onto the stool next to me.
"Come on, sweetie. It’s a little cliché to check me out like that," you say quietly, leaning in to me. I blush a little, already losing at our little game.
"It’s a little cliché for you to wear something like that to a place like this in the first place, don’t you think?" I retort. Your eyes widen for a second, but then you just exhale and cock your head, changing the subject by waving that napkin I wrote on in my face.
"Is this really the best you can do?" you ask. I detect more than a little venom in your voice, but I’m convinced it’s part of the game. A moment later, the bartender walks over and places an appletini in front of me. He smiles at me, glances at you and walks away. I turn to you, grinning, as you lean in again.
"There’s your drink. Enjoy."
"Touche." I dip my head toward you before I take a sip.
"And when you’re done, you can guess what color my panties are," you whisper. My heartbeat speeds up, but my eyes never leave yours as I smoothly tip the glass up and down the drink in one swallow.
Placing the glass down on the bar again, I smirk, whispering "My guess is... you’re not even wearing any panties. And that might be the biggest cliché of all."
You take my hand and guide it under your short dress. I can feel your wet lips against my fingertips. I stroke them gently before pushing them apart just slightly and slipping the tip of my index finger inside you. A short, quiet gasp escapes your lips, inaudible to anyone but me. You stifle it instantly and reply in a breathy whisper: "Well, I can live with one or two clichés. Can’t you?"
To be continued... ?
