A Pussy In Boots Part 2

An eBook By Helen Henley.

remember that spring as it was the one when I was invited to one of Barbara's parties. I had become accustomed to not going to parties, made it almost a gesture of social defiance, but with Peter at school the sound of just my own voice in the apartment was getting to me. Not even Bach and his Coffee Cantata seemed able to fill the space. So I accepted and got Alan to assume the roles of escort, chaperone and bodyguard.

don't know quite how I got involved with Alan so don't press me. He was mid-height, brown receding hair that matched his chin, but with a sensuous mouth and erotic eyes, 27, and a small-part-but-I-am-capable-of-big-parts actor. He was not really my type, if I believed myself to have a type, but he was very vigorous in bed. He was, though, another of those males who want to fuck the leather rather than the lady inside it. He could spend a happy evening just stroking a leather jacket near the frontal hills without attempting to get his hand lower down, under the leather skirt and yet I could sense he was getting hard. Leather is a fetish material - read that somewhere - but a fetish is something that is supposed to be a sexual substitute. Psychologists promoting that theory had clearly not seen Alan inspiring his impressive erection by just caressing or kissing my boots.

am not turned on by leather on the male. I tend to get finger-and-toes-tingles watching the erection; the way the foreskin folds back showing the glans, a tiny blind face with a red mouth complete with lips. I like to touch it and feel it - not all men like that - and I like to guide the penis to the place and work the tip against my clitoris until I am hissing. Then, with a polite invitation to visit, I take my hand away.

Alan never rushed things. He took his time going in and allowed a respectable pause before he began thrusting. He knew instinctively when a different position would improve the recipe. "Don't come yet". "Not going to." "I'm going to mount you". "Fine". He was controlled. He would pause to check if I was ready for a finale and enquire "On your back?" which was how I normally liked it. Then he gave what I liked to call his "war-cry" - and I would give loud verbal recognition as the hot semen splashed against the walls of the cervix. That is a lovely sensation, you are both the recipient and the giver. Men can't grasp that. For them it is just a discharge of passion, a wonderful feeling of relief.

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