knismo
2nd Level Red Feather
- Joined
- Feb 4, 2005
- Messages
- 1,425
- Points
- 38
I saw a picture of a contortionist on the Internet (don't ask what I was looking for, you nosy pervs! :-D) and it reminded me of a sort-of-date I had back in my late single years.
The girl was a dancer, a very flexible one -- I'll call her "Sheena." She was part of a Mardi Gras non-profit volunteer fundraising event of which I was one of the managers. We used to flirt madly during and after the meetings leading up to the event, with all sorts of maddening teasing and whispered naughties in each other's ears when innocently passing each other.
The night of the event, I was dressed as The Phantom of the Opera, since, having a good supply of tuxes in the closet and a black stain-type cape, all I needed was the hat and the mask, easily remedied by a trip to the local costume shop.
When I saw her that night, she was dressed in a very tight, very colorful Brazilian samba-type dancer's outfit, with brilliantly painted (or air-brushed, I couldn't tell) leotard, little dancer's slip-on ballet shoes and a large, feathered mask. She looked, for lack of a more erudite word, HOT.
The night was a very stressful one for all the staff, as the lead caterer decided to try and blackmail us for more money the day of the event, seeing as we really had no option but to acquiesce. The rest of the caterers were as unruly as wet cats, and the weather barely cooperated, with the running threat of snow all the way up to the event, which mercifully was a dry and weather-uneventful night. But near the end, the staff began unwinding, and we managed to talk one of the catering organizations out of a case of champagne and a keg or two of beer for our afterparty at a local resident's house nearby.
The afterparty was as wild as these things get after three months of boring meetings and the last minute stresses and strains of the event. "Sheena" and I were even more lurid in our flirting, teasing and whispering, and after seeing her gyrations on the living room dance floor at the party, I whispered in her ear when she went for a drink, "Dancer? Or contortionist?" with a leer. She turned around, gave a huge grin, and said, "Maybe you'll find out later."
Later that night, with both of us next to each other on a sofa, I grabbed her legs and swung them across my lap. She didn't resist when I slipped off one of the ballet slippers, and she bit her lip and inhaled hard when I dragged my fingernail up her instep. "Ticklish?" I asked evilly. "That too," she whispered.
When the party wound down, I offered to take her back to her apartment uptown, as her ride to the event apparently had split with someone earlier. When we arrived, she simply got out of the car and said, "Coming?"
Inside, many of the outer clothes came off, but I was still in tux shirt and trousers with rolled up sleeves and the bow tie untied and draped around my neck (the nest reason to wear a "real" bow tie and not a clip-on). She stripped down to just the one-piece leotard, kicking the slippers off into a corner. She sauntered up to me, pressed me into the wall with her body, and kissed me deeply.
Alas, this was not the good part.
You see, sadly, Sheena was not that good a kisser. At all. Basically, her idea of deep kissing was to stick her tongue out as far as she could into her partner's mouth. That's it. No movement, no sensuality, just ... pow. Ach.
After the kiss, I decided to change tack, and try something different. "So, what about that 'contortionist' line?"
Now it was her turn to smile evilly. She sashayed to the bed in a way that says she knew her tight dancer's ass was a thing of beauty in its multicolored leotard, lay down on the bed, and slowly, lifted her right leg up, up, up and back until it was behind her head, her foot angled to hook behind the nape of her neck like a Bob Fosse dancer. She repeated the process, if anything more langorously, with the left leg until she was able to lock her tanned bare feet behind her head. And she lay there, smiling invitingly.
I walked over, sat on the bed, and slid on top of her so that my crotch was right over hers, my hardness pressing right into the little valley in her tights. I slid my hands up her sides, up her legs, and up until my palms pressed flat on her taut arches and my fingertips on each of her toes as they were motionless behind her head.
When I lowered my head to kiss her, once again came her tongue, the invader, deep into my mouth. But this time, I gently slid my head back and forth as if I were giving her tongue fellatio. At the same time, I began slowly and rhythmically grinding my pelvis into the warmth radiating hotter and moister from the mound pressing back into me.
After a minute or two of this contortionist frottage, it was time to really get evil. On the 'out' stroke on her tongue, I nipped it lightly but firmly between my teeth. Her eyes opened wide, but her wet pussy kept pushing, rubbing, grinding into mine. At that point, my hands, which she had forgotten about in the rest of the fun, became the primary instrument of her torment.
Because she had to keep her ankles locked behind her head, it meant the arches of her feet were taut, with her toes naturally bent back. I began running the tips of my fingers up and down the bottoms of her feet, since, with me on top of her, and her feet locked together, there was nothing she could do and nowhere she could go. She was a prisoner of her own position, in bondage from her own body. And I lay there, on top of her, rubbing my cock, hard like blue steel through my pants, into her and tickling her feet mercilessly.
Her eyes stayed wide open and she began to make a kind of keening noise; she was on fire below the waist and in hell on the soles of her feet as I began dragging my fingernails now, raking them from her toes to her heels and back, feeling the muscles in the bottom of her feet twitch like strings on a viola. She was laughing and coming, tears coming from her eyes, her tongue caught between my teeth -- and she was making no effort to pull it back -- and what felt like an Amazon jungle's worth of wetness cascaded from her, wetting her and me through her leotard and my satiny tuxedo pants.
When her keening noise subsided, I again rested my palms flat on the bottoms of her feet and let go of her tongue. She just looked at me, her mouth open in an odd kind of smile while she tried to catch her breath.
Finally she just grinned and said, "You're mean!"
"I know." And I leaned down to kiss her again. And once again, she brought her head up to kiss me, and we began again, me giving head to her tongue, and her, grinding her pelvis into my sodden, soaking pants.
After a little of this, I slid my fingers up and pressed them down between her toes, interlacing them so that her toes were spread apart, as well as her soles taut due to the position she was in. Her mouth widened in a smile while her tongue was out, as if she was sending the telepathic thought, "Ha! You can't tickle my feet now!"
Boy, was she wrong.
When she started to moan again, I once more nipped her tongue between my teeth. When her and my grinding at the waist got to a fever pitch, I raised my palms up off of her arches with my fingers still between her toes, and began to drag my thumbnails in wide, slow circles around the center of the bottoms of her feet. Her eyes flew wide open this time, as if she were shocked, and the keening that came from her was an order of magnitude louder and in its intensity, as now she couldn't even wiggle her toes -- she simply had to endure the slow torturous circles of my thumbs on the bottoms of her feet while I rubbed into her harder, faster, wetter.
At her climax, she simply locked up, a ball of coiled orgasmic nerve endings overstimulated from feet to vagina, an overload of stimuli from being rubbed and tickled until her brain must have just said, "I quit -- let the pussy take over." She shook at the waist and I could feel her toes try and curl around my fingers until I swear she must have squeezed the blood out of my fingertips. And we were just one large puddle from navels to knees: she must have squirted about a full quart of vaginal ejaculate out, and our clothes were serving as the quicker-picker-upper.
When her body finally relaxed from its quaking, shuddering rigor mortis, I unwound my fingers from between her toes, and lifted myself up off of her (I ran my fingertips one last time down the soles of her feet before I pulled away, just to hear that delectable gasp of air one last time). She unhooked her ankles and stretched out, lowering her legs and then smiled ruefully at the large wet stain on the sheets around her.
"You are really mean."
"I know. But you weren't complaining."
"I wasn't, was I?"
"Of course, I really didn't give you a chance, did I?"
"Meanie."
"Glad you liked it."
"I did."
And she smiled.
After a quick peck of a kiss, I wound up letting myself out, with my black cape wrapped around my waist like some Seattle grunge kid dressed up for the night but unsure about formalwear etiquette. We saw each other a few times after that, but other than a few knowing smiles (and a time at one summer festival where she slid her foot out of her sandal and wordlessly wiggled her toes at me), we never did anything together again. But then again, what could top it?
k
The girl was a dancer, a very flexible one -- I'll call her "Sheena." She was part of a Mardi Gras non-profit volunteer fundraising event of which I was one of the managers. We used to flirt madly during and after the meetings leading up to the event, with all sorts of maddening teasing and whispered naughties in each other's ears when innocently passing each other.
The night of the event, I was dressed as The Phantom of the Opera, since, having a good supply of tuxes in the closet and a black stain-type cape, all I needed was the hat and the mask, easily remedied by a trip to the local costume shop.
When I saw her that night, she was dressed in a very tight, very colorful Brazilian samba-type dancer's outfit, with brilliantly painted (or air-brushed, I couldn't tell) leotard, little dancer's slip-on ballet shoes and a large, feathered mask. She looked, for lack of a more erudite word, HOT.
The night was a very stressful one for all the staff, as the lead caterer decided to try and blackmail us for more money the day of the event, seeing as we really had no option but to acquiesce. The rest of the caterers were as unruly as wet cats, and the weather barely cooperated, with the running threat of snow all the way up to the event, which mercifully was a dry and weather-uneventful night. But near the end, the staff began unwinding, and we managed to talk one of the catering organizations out of a case of champagne and a keg or two of beer for our afterparty at a local resident's house nearby.
The afterparty was as wild as these things get after three months of boring meetings and the last minute stresses and strains of the event. "Sheena" and I were even more lurid in our flirting, teasing and whispering, and after seeing her gyrations on the living room dance floor at the party, I whispered in her ear when she went for a drink, "Dancer? Or contortionist?" with a leer. She turned around, gave a huge grin, and said, "Maybe you'll find out later."
Later that night, with both of us next to each other on a sofa, I grabbed her legs and swung them across my lap. She didn't resist when I slipped off one of the ballet slippers, and she bit her lip and inhaled hard when I dragged my fingernail up her instep. "Ticklish?" I asked evilly. "That too," she whispered.
When the party wound down, I offered to take her back to her apartment uptown, as her ride to the event apparently had split with someone earlier. When we arrived, she simply got out of the car and said, "Coming?"
Inside, many of the outer clothes came off, but I was still in tux shirt and trousers with rolled up sleeves and the bow tie untied and draped around my neck (the nest reason to wear a "real" bow tie and not a clip-on). She stripped down to just the one-piece leotard, kicking the slippers off into a corner. She sauntered up to me, pressed me into the wall with her body, and kissed me deeply.
Alas, this was not the good part.
You see, sadly, Sheena was not that good a kisser. At all. Basically, her idea of deep kissing was to stick her tongue out as far as she could into her partner's mouth. That's it. No movement, no sensuality, just ... pow. Ach.
After the kiss, I decided to change tack, and try something different. "So, what about that 'contortionist' line?"
Now it was her turn to smile evilly. She sashayed to the bed in a way that says she knew her tight dancer's ass was a thing of beauty in its multicolored leotard, lay down on the bed, and slowly, lifted her right leg up, up, up and back until it was behind her head, her foot angled to hook behind the nape of her neck like a Bob Fosse dancer. She repeated the process, if anything more langorously, with the left leg until she was able to lock her tanned bare feet behind her head. And she lay there, smiling invitingly.
I walked over, sat on the bed, and slid on top of her so that my crotch was right over hers, my hardness pressing right into the little valley in her tights. I slid my hands up her sides, up her legs, and up until my palms pressed flat on her taut arches and my fingertips on each of her toes as they were motionless behind her head.
When I lowered my head to kiss her, once again came her tongue, the invader, deep into my mouth. But this time, I gently slid my head back and forth as if I were giving her tongue fellatio. At the same time, I began slowly and rhythmically grinding my pelvis into the warmth radiating hotter and moister from the mound pressing back into me.
After a minute or two of this contortionist frottage, it was time to really get evil. On the 'out' stroke on her tongue, I nipped it lightly but firmly between my teeth. Her eyes opened wide, but her wet pussy kept pushing, rubbing, grinding into mine. At that point, my hands, which she had forgotten about in the rest of the fun, became the primary instrument of her torment.
Because she had to keep her ankles locked behind her head, it meant the arches of her feet were taut, with her toes naturally bent back. I began running the tips of my fingers up and down the bottoms of her feet, since, with me on top of her, and her feet locked together, there was nothing she could do and nowhere she could go. She was a prisoner of her own position, in bondage from her own body. And I lay there, on top of her, rubbing my cock, hard like blue steel through my pants, into her and tickling her feet mercilessly.
Her eyes stayed wide open and she began to make a kind of keening noise; she was on fire below the waist and in hell on the soles of her feet as I began dragging my fingernails now, raking them from her toes to her heels and back, feeling the muscles in the bottom of her feet twitch like strings on a viola. She was laughing and coming, tears coming from her eyes, her tongue caught between my teeth -- and she was making no effort to pull it back -- and what felt like an Amazon jungle's worth of wetness cascaded from her, wetting her and me through her leotard and my satiny tuxedo pants.
When her keening noise subsided, I again rested my palms flat on the bottoms of her feet and let go of her tongue. She just looked at me, her mouth open in an odd kind of smile while she tried to catch her breath.
Finally she just grinned and said, "You're mean!"
"I know." And I leaned down to kiss her again. And once again, she brought her head up to kiss me, and we began again, me giving head to her tongue, and her, grinding her pelvis into my sodden, soaking pants.
After a little of this, I slid my fingers up and pressed them down between her toes, interlacing them so that her toes were spread apart, as well as her soles taut due to the position she was in. Her mouth widened in a smile while her tongue was out, as if she was sending the telepathic thought, "Ha! You can't tickle my feet now!"
Boy, was she wrong.
When she started to moan again, I once more nipped her tongue between my teeth. When her and my grinding at the waist got to a fever pitch, I raised my palms up off of her arches with my fingers still between her toes, and began to drag my thumbnails in wide, slow circles around the center of the bottoms of her feet. Her eyes flew wide open this time, as if she were shocked, and the keening that came from her was an order of magnitude louder and in its intensity, as now she couldn't even wiggle her toes -- she simply had to endure the slow torturous circles of my thumbs on the bottoms of her feet while I rubbed into her harder, faster, wetter.
At her climax, she simply locked up, a ball of coiled orgasmic nerve endings overstimulated from feet to vagina, an overload of stimuli from being rubbed and tickled until her brain must have just said, "I quit -- let the pussy take over." She shook at the waist and I could feel her toes try and curl around my fingers until I swear she must have squeezed the blood out of my fingertips. And we were just one large puddle from navels to knees: she must have squirted about a full quart of vaginal ejaculate out, and our clothes were serving as the quicker-picker-upper.
When her body finally relaxed from its quaking, shuddering rigor mortis, I unwound my fingers from between her toes, and lifted myself up off of her (I ran my fingertips one last time down the soles of her feet before I pulled away, just to hear that delectable gasp of air one last time). She unhooked her ankles and stretched out, lowering her legs and then smiled ruefully at the large wet stain on the sheets around her.
"You are really mean."
"I know. But you weren't complaining."
"I wasn't, was I?"
"Of course, I really didn't give you a chance, did I?"
"Meanie."
"Glad you liked it."
"I did."
And she smiled.
After a quick peck of a kiss, I wound up letting myself out, with my black cape wrapped around my waist like some Seattle grunge kid dressed up for the night but unsure about formalwear etiquette. We saw each other a few times after that, but other than a few knowing smiles (and a time at one summer festival where she slid her foot out of her sandal and wordlessly wiggled her toes at me), we never did anything together again. But then again, what could top it?
k
