Tessie L'Amour, M. Christian, Charisse, Jhada Addams, Jayme Whitfield, Whiskey McNaughton, Ainsley, Amelia James
Sexy Briefs: Tasty Little Tails
Nighthawks by M. Christian
1:00AM. Phillies coffee house. A cup each: white and sweet for her, black for him. Nick stirred his clockwise, Darlene stirred counter.
“Chasin’ the moon tonight?” Nick said, looking over at her. Her hair was the color of fresh copper, and she wore a dress to match. Her face was lean, but not harsh, and her eyes were the green of fresh grass.
“Just watching it travel, I guess. Probably gonna be home before it sets,” Darlene said, smiling at him. He had a good face, with lots of character: strong chin, good nose, gray eyes hooded beneath luxurious eyebrows. Not a pretty-boy, but handsome on his own.
“Used to be able to make it myself: all the way from the silver coming up to the silver going down. No gray on the roof, but I’m not a kid anymore,” he said smiling at her. Under the red dress she was slim but not skinny, breasts full and obvious even through the material.
“You don’t look like you’re ready to get stuck in a home to me,” she said, returning the smile. He wasn’t big, but he seemed to be well put together: broad shoulders, and with nothing hanging over his belt. His hands, she noticed, had character. They were like signposts to his soul: strong, elegant, with perfectly clean nails.
“You’re just buttering me. Nah, just been burning too much of that midnight oil lately.” He wondered about her, instantly picturing her standing in his little place: red dress tossed over a chair, silken slip floating as she walked, showing off her fine lines. He imagined a redhead’s soft skin, longs legs stretching beneath the bright white slip, and the twin points of hard nipples on perfect breasts.
“Know it. Just got off a shift myself. Thought a cup might make the trip home a little easier.” She wondered about his lips: strong but soft, at first a gentle graze across hers, just a mixing of breaths. Then the initial chaste one, the first touch of his to hers. Heat between them flaring with the first touch of tongues, then the roaring blaze as he tilted her head back for a longer, more penetrating kiss.
“I’m right down on Bleeker. Got a little more to do but ran out of java. Jack’s place is always open.” He saw himself on his bed, looking down his half-dressed body, t-shirt, shorts, socks, as she climbed up with him. The gleaming white of her slip moving just enough to give him quick snapshots of knotted, deep-brown nipples, a tight tummy, and the distant flash of curled red hairs between her long legs.
“Gotta love Jack. You work graveyard or something?” His hands. Yes, that was next: his hands. Very good hands, and she thought about how he might use them. During the kissing, when it got good, so very good, they would be on her. Not hard grabs, but rather slow grazes across her thighs, up her side, over her shoulder. Then, as the fires grew higher, a gentle rest on her skirt, a cautious knead of the hard muscles. She imagined, and could see herself spread her thighs a little, just enough. But he’d be a good man, and wouldn’t dive right in. Instead, she saw him kiss her even harder, swing dancing with her tongue, and his hand rest softly on her breast. At the thought, her nipple crinkled and gently throbbed in the soft support of her bra.
“My own. I’m a hack; got one thing down but have another piece due tomorrow.” He was hard and hoped she wouldn’t notice-but he was also hard and hoped she would notice. She was there, live and real in his mind, smiling up at him as she reached into his boxers and pulled out his very, very hard dick. She kissed it, at first-just a soft little touch to let him know that she wasn’t afraid. Then a longer, wetter, harder kiss. In his mind, he was in her mouth, with his sensitive head of his cock grazing the roof of her mouth, as he watched her bright red hair bob up and down with each in, each out.
“Maybe I’ve read something.” She could see his chest, lightly haired with dark nipples and ridges of firm muscles. His shoulders would have a light dusting of freckles, and his arms would be thick but not burly. He would have a good manly chest. Salt, the sensation suddenly on her tongue as she sipped at her coffee. Yes, salt: she wanted-then, there-to kiss that bare chest, taste the bite of his gleaming sweat.
“Not unless you hang out in some very unlady-like places. It pays the bills, though. Where do you sling your hash?” It wasn’t that she would do the things he’d seen on playing cards, in stag reels. No, that wasn’t that had his dick throbbing on his pants. It was just the thought of her being there, really there, with him in his little place. The way she smiled: he ached to see her that same smile as she stroked his dick; as she pulled off her slip to show him her lean body, her firm breasts, her dark nipples, the triangle of red curls down between her legs. He wanted all that, but all that with the smile-more than anything.
“Del Rio’s down on 154th. Food’s not bad and the joes don’t pinch my ass that much.” She wanted those strong hands to touch her, to pull her close in a tight clench. She wanted him to hold her, to squeeze her so that her body was pressed against the firmness of his chest, his tight legs, his securing arms. Then-shocking in its quick power-she wanted him in her, to fill her with his kind strength, his barely restrained power.
“Tempting, I have to say; but I’m too much the gentleman.” In his mind she was turning, showing him all that she was-all that she had, a proud display of her excitement. Not shy, not hiding under the bedclothes, but smiling with pleasure. Her breasts, yes; firm, with just a little jiggle as she turned; her thighs, all good lines — a knockout; her bush, looking sweet and inviting, with her legs barely spread so he could see between; her ass, tight, strong, like a perfect pear. And-as she turned for him-always the smile, the brilliant show of red lips and white teeth. She wanted this, wanted him. That was the best part of his fantasy.
“My knight. Just as long as your pen is better than your sword.” She was daring in her mind, imagining his strokes into her, his strong pounding between her tight thighs. Thinking, allowing her mind to run hot and humid, she felt herself respond. A quick blush came to her cheeks as the wetness came between her legs. The shame, though, was gone as quick as the hot, wet had come: the dance of their bodies coming together, of his member sliding into that wetness, of his breath on her neck, of his lips grazing his own, was just too damned nice.
“Don’t know about that — haven’t got any complaints about the sword as of yet.” One playing card stuck in his mind, a favorite of his jerk-off fantasies, and her smile would go so well with it: her red, freckled body straddling him as he lay on his bed, her tits bouncing as she moved her ass up and down on his dick. He could feel her, in his mind: the way her cunt would grip him, the way her so-soft, so-wet lips would push down and pull up with each wild bounce. Smiling, of course, as she fucked herself on his very hard dick.
She felt a new flush, a kind of fear: too much, too much. Good, damned yes, but it was too much: she wanted to touch him, to run a hand across his cheek, to feel the muscles there, the slight sandpaper of his almost-invisible shadow. She wanted to say something, to bring it about. No-no, it was too scary, too present. “This late I don’t know if anyone would be able to find anything,” she said.
He felt a heaviness. She was still there, fucking herself on his so-hard dick, but part of himself felt the illusion fall. If she came with him she probably wouldn’t smile, probably wouldn’t show him her body with pride and excitement. Maybe a handjob, maybe just a promise for sometime later that would never come. “I know. Except maybe the moon. Shouldn’t stop us from trying though,” he said.
“Always willing to try-but, you know, I think it’s going down,” she said, a little bloom springing up. Maybe, maybe, maybe. She touched that hope, and kept smiling at him.
“Happens to all of us. Long nights, too little sleep… you know,” But, he thought, she just might. The illusion flickered but didn’t die-he held it, looking at her pretty face, and smiled back. Maybe -
“Too well. Sometimes I think the only thing that keeps me going is the joe,” she said. She held it, the dream of him kissing her, of his broad chest, his strong thrusts, the chills and wonderful shivers of him inside her. Not tonight-no, but there’s always the next day.
“Good dreams. See you in here tomorrow?” he said, trying to keep the quaver out of his voice, the precious grip on his dream from slipping. It was a good illusion: so real and… too complete not to give it a try.
“It’s a date-I’ll just follow the moon,” she said, swallowing back an octave of pleasure. Not today, but maybe
