Who darkens my door at this old hour of night?

I wrote this fantasy for Christmas, which as everyone is aware, has now come and gone. For nearly two weeks I've been silent on this blog while the holidays rolled by, a New Year arrived and the snow began, and didn't seem to stop until it turned into a good old fashioned blizzard and now sub-zero temperatures. While it may be frozen outside...it's certainly warm inside the cozy world where these hot lovers meet.



Winter Fantasy

The snow is falling, quietly, a stealthy thief, its silent power spiriting my hopes away as it builds in fury, and the wind whips and the icy mess on the road takes my fondest dreams and tramples them into the drifting white, on this night, this ONE night.

    I lie back in bed and turn off the light, listening as the sounds in the house diminish… the TV off, the cats asleep, the rustle of the quilts settling around my naked body quietly as I lazily meander toward sleep.
Just the sound of the whispering wind outside and my own breath.

    I’ve accepted it. Facts are facts.
    Roads are icy in this wilderness up north
    slick
    covered in snow
    wind sending flurries of white stuff into the air
    into a blizzard
    into one more night without him in my bed
   
I’m drifting off, mind spinning down, but not deep enough that I don’t hear
the sudden sound of the doorknob rattle
    the front door creak open
    the click of the lock as it closes

A sharp intake of breath, panic rises
    Who darkens my door at this old hour of night?
    In the cold, this wind, in this dreadful snow?
    He would have called, I tell myself.
    So, yes, I have reason to panic…

until the light goes on in the hallway,
    and my bedroom door, once standing ajar,
    suddenly opens wide
    so I see the outline of my intruder back lit by the radiance around him
    No face, no eyes, nothing to identify him
    but the shape of his body
    And that I recognize
    I breathe deep again
    this time a sigh of relief

He stalks me, walking slowly toward the bed, looking into my face – a fact I know only because I can see that his face is aimed toward me. I stare back, seeing his features emerge from the darkness, his eyes lit on mine, his solemn expression much as I expect.

    Panic further recedes, replaced by a warm and lusty heat that begins at my crotch and radiates outward. To fingers. To toes. To very top of my head I am turned on.

    But now the silence he brings with him causes a different kind of panic.
    No cheery greeting
    No twinkling eyes
    No kind grin
    Just the man in his primal state
remote, sexy and dark as this black snowy night.

I shudder fiercely as I await his first move – chilled to the bone.

    He comes softly to my bedside, standing above me with the same shadowy, sinister promise I gleaned from him in that first moment of recognition.

    Makes me wonder if this is really him, or just a phantom born my imagination.

    Ah! But now I can clearly make out his eyes as he stares down at me through the midnight gloom. I can see he’s real. And the tingle of lust that pervades by body doubles, triples, quadruples in size, as his presence magnifies – something to do, perhaps, with the silvery aura that surrounds him? It’s just that bright hallway light, but I’d swear he appears like some ghostly apparition.
   
 Slowly he strips off his clothes.
    Shoes first – he kicks them off.
    Then the sweater
    the blue jeans
    the socks
    the underwear
    til he stands naked next to me.

My heart skips beats. My pussy clenches orgasmic at the thought of all that nakedness lying with me.

Touch me. Come to me. Hold me tight my delirium calls him to me.

    He leans forward, grabs the covers and opens them wide. The cold air dashes in and goosebumps break out on my flesh, while I swear the rest of me is sweaty and hot. Hot because of those startling eyes, that enigmatic look as he appraises me, because of that naked body, and all those sexy body parts – hands, lips, thighs, cock, because of the promise of sex lingering between us in one, long painful moment of anticipation.
    Touch me. Tease me. Make me cum I call to him again
    Orgasmic spasm No. 1
   
He slides in bed on top of me. Here I am naked, as if I knew all along he’d be here with me. Naked to naked. Skin to skin. Cool flesh against my warmth. He wouldn’t miss our date, not this ONE night. I have reason to smile. I feel his cock, flaccid just a moment ago, already thickening as it presses against my inner thigh.
    Orgasmic spasm No. 2

I grind myself against his smooth skin and the muscled chest, my lips waiting hungrily for that first hot kiss. But it’s “hands above your head,” he says as he pries my clawing fingers from his body.
    “Please,” I plead. I don’t want to let go.
    “Hush, slut, and do as I say,” he speaks again, with a degree of firmness. I react to his mild reproof.
    Orgasmic spasm No. 3

“My god I want you in me!” I exclaim as my arms are stretched out overhead, and he’s clamping my hands in his fist, firmly applying greater force than I’ve felt in days, maybe weeks. To think, I’ve recently considered asking him to heat up this Master/slave game of ours…and he’s right on point, without my having said a word, within these first three minutes of another erotic rendezvous.
    Orgasmic spasm No. 4

I roll my hips against him, feeling his cock further harden, the stiff muscle throbbing hotly against my pussy.
    
He kisses me now, fervently, forcefully, fiercely; we’ll be fucking soon, I’m sure, though kissing is all he wants from me for now, and there’s no complaint from me. I’m into his kisses, his soft pliant but ever-so demanding lips. His tongue pushing into my mouth, colliding with my own tongue, which means that down below between my legs I feel the electric shock of our lust hit hard. I groan like a lusty whore.
    Orgasmic spasms Nos. 5, 6, 7
   
I’m like rolling thunder now with hips grinding deeply into his hips, my hungry, empty snatch grasping, clenching, wanting what is only his to give. “Yes, yes, yes,” I hiss between kisses, when we come up for air. Even in this darkened room I can see the glint in his eye as he sees the glint in mine. I know where he’s leading and will happily follow. Except that he makes me wait. He knows I’m ready but he forces me to teeter on the sharp edge of pleasure and pain. Until when? I wonder. 

Oh, you miserable bastard! I offer up a silent protest, but he still holds back.

    I want to touch him, grab him, bring his body deeper into me. I part my thighs further, bend my knees, make it clearly apparent that I want him inside me, inside me, riding me to hard paradise and back again.
    Orgasmic spasms Nos. 8, 9 10…

    Suddenly his cock is in my cunt, hard, firm and determined. There’s no counting spasms anymore – like I would even want to try once he’s slipped that ravenous cock of his inside my slick, wide open hole, and he’s banging me like a man possessed. I become one wet, hot cumming cunt, squeezing down with my inner muscles, grasping, thirsting, wanting him hard, deeper, meaner than he’s ever been before.

    This is the orgasm to write home about
    the best yet
    the better than ever brand of climax that won’t quit. I’m riding on that high plateau, the spasms stronger, gaining amplitude, subspace stretching far beyond me, my body wracked with orgasm while bound by his hammering body, his steely fist and lips that won’t stop kissing mine…
    …until just before I think he’s going to cum

    He stops
    hard
    brusque
    without explanation
    and sits on top of me, turning sadist in a blink of an eye
    He slaps my face first – and my body swoons again, cunt pressing up into him, begging…
    Then my tits, back and forth
    the blows repeat until the skin burns hot, and, aching violently,
    lusts for another stinging strike and then another…

    Oh! What sweet pain this is!

No longer are my hands captured in his fist, though they remain above my head as if he’s glued them to the headboard. I wouldn’t dare to move them until he gives the command.

    “You like your tits smacked, slut?”

    “Yes, Master.”

    “You want more, slut?”

    “Yes, Master.”

    “Then ask for it proper, slave.” He emphasizes the word slave so I’m sure to remember who I am…

    And proper. What does he mean by proper?

    “Please, my generous master,” I begin, “I would really, greatly, desperately love for you to slap my tits again.”

    “You are such a slutty little wench!” There’s a sly smirk on that handsome face.

    I feel that smirk deep between my legs, where he owns me, where his throbbing cock is planted; where I can feel that hot throbbing make my cumming cunt more ecstatic than it already is. And so I grind myself against him once again, raising my aching pussy into his groin.

    “You want it bad?”

    “Don’t you, too?”

    “As a matter of fact…”

    He drops down against my chest and my thighs open wider than they’ve been before. He plunges deeper than I can remember, tunneling with that throbbing organ, in me, all over me, owning me, using me, taking me back to subspace
    with every,
        single
             thrust of that steely ramrod

    And then he cums

    And I cum, too – for the umpteenth time

    And I think Yes, this is it. What it means to love this man. I’m happy, ecstatic, deliriously myself once again, in his arms, in his control, in love with his lust for me.

    His every pleasure-filled groan makes me smile and it seems for a long while we bask in the beautiful aftermath.

    “Arms tired?” he asks at last.

    “They are, Sir.”

    “Then take them down and love up the rest of me,” he says.

    I can see through the window that the snow still falls silently, steadily outside the cabin. And with a smile on my lips, I snuggle into him, my hands pouring over his flesh as if I’ve never touched him this way before, and will never again, never quite like this.

    “I thought you wouldn’t be home tonight,” I murmur from my sweet nirvana, still astounded that he’s even here and this is not a dream.

    “Well, then, you underestimate me, slave. I said I’d be here and I am. Merry Christmas.”

    “Merry Christmas, Master.”

A joyous and peaceful Christmas to all!

The Night She Met Her Cowboy

 (Book Cover Image removed to comply with Google restrictions on nudity)

Spent most of my morning trying out new color schemes and styles for this blog. Still haven't made any final decisions, but this is it for now. Lest I not forget the point of what I'm doing, I do have this steamy scene to take us into the weekend. 

May your holiday celebrations be filled with joy and lots of kinky fun! 
Lizbeth

From the novel: Poor Little Rich Slut

Feeling the tempestuous night close in around me, I shivered in fear as I walked from my car to the sidewalk. All was black and starless. Clouds swarmed overhead like an angry sea. I didn’t realize that the frenzied wind and turbulent air were merely a backdrop for some godly declaration. It was a bold stroke of genius when, through a sudden opening in that stormy commotion, the full moon appeared like a heavenly emissary and shone brightly into my startled eyes. Was it a blessing or a curse? I couldn’t say. The effect was both beautiful and frightening. Seconds later, the clouds closed in around that brilliant moon, enshrouding the orb inside their gloom again. My body felt something horrific pass through it, then the feeling disappeared as quickly as it came, as quick as that brief glimpse of moon.

    I do believe I had been warned.

    Regardless of my apprehensions, I moved through the inky night to the chain-link fence where the gate stood ajar, my invitation to enter into the eerie world of carnival lights and blinking neon. A gust of air danced loose trash across my path. It swirled then fell to the ground again as soon as the air settled. I stopped to let it pass, then ventured deeper into the amusement park. While ignoring the steady internal dialogue, about why the hell I’d be risking myself in this dilapidated world, the rest of me moved eagerly toward the Carousel where Casey Ingram said he’d meet me. We’d made the date the week before, when I felt particularly reckless and in need of a change.

    I’d taken off on my own that night, after having abandoned my agreement with Garrison Tate—a shameless scoundrel who was both my co-worker and sexual mentor. In a similarly seedy neighborhood as this wretched Carnival one, I popped into a bar, sitting my leather-clad behind on a vinyl barstool and ordered a martini. Was I sleazy enough for the place? I immediately wondered, as I gazed around at my fellow clientele, who sat at the bar and tables, clutching with grimy fingers their bottles of Bud and Pabst Blue Ribbon. They ate stale popcorn by the handful, made wisecracking remarks, then laughed in boisterous gales. Afterwards they settled back to glowering until something gave them cause to regale the bar with laughter again.

    I gave the skuzzy men something to look at for thirty dreadful seconds, during which I deliberately adjusted myself on the stool, wiggling my derriere to attract, not repel their attention. I liked their eyes on me and imagined I could read their thoughts—where scenes of hard-fucking ass-sex seemed to reign among the other dirty things they’d do to me. Pantiless, I felt a quotient of female juices leaking out against my thighs as the effect of that image trickled down through my body. Wiggling my ass again, merely as a way of grinding my pussy deeper into the vinyl stool, I felt a spasm of pure pleasure make my entire crotch heat.

    I probably should have ordered a beer not a martini. But then that made me more watchable, which was exactly what I was after.

    Some moments later, Casey Ingram entered, wearing cowboy boots, roughed-up jeans and a scowl to rival the rest of those I’d grown accustomed to in the previous ten minutes. There was something especially appealing about this guy. I liked his swagger, and behind the facial hair, the scruffy beard and the dark mustache, I made out a handsome face.

    My cowboy sat down a seat away from me at the bar and hovered over a double-shot of whiskey, which he finally downed in one gulp before slamming the glass against the bar. After a big sigh, he turned his head toward me, smiling.

    “Casey Ingram,” he said, his introduction, “and you are?”

    I’m the heiress Eleanor Hutton Rule to the rest of the world. To Casey Ingram, I’m Ellie Barnes.

    “Ellie,” I spat out. “Ellie Barnes.” First time I’d ever used an alias and I rather liked the way it sounded. I liked being someone else.

    “You’re here alone, Ellie Barnes?”

    “That’s right.”

    His eyes combed my body head to toe, seeing the sleek, kittenish look I carefully crafted before leaving home. My hair was smooth, in a blunt pageboy no longer than my shoulders; my lashes were thick with mascara. I wore too much lipstick, too much blush, too much shadow over my eyes—he was certain to think me cheap and easy. I should have worn denim rather than leather to make my seedy look more authentic, I thought in a moment of self-doubt. But then, I don’t think my cowboy noticed that the leather skirt was designer chic, not off the rack. His eyes rested on my chest, settling in for a while to imagine what might be under the tightly stretched, low-cut sweater. I moved toward him invitingly, my cleavage cooperating with the seduction as the flesh jiggled enough to keep the cowboy’s eyes fixed a few more seconds. Finally, his gaze shifted downward, noting the way my hiked-up skirt showed off the lace tops of my stockings and the attaching garters.

    “So, you must be meeting someone?” He finally looked into my eyes.

    “No,” I shook my head.

    “This ain’t the kinda place you just stumble into.”

    “No, I don’t suppose it is. But I needed a drink and it was close.”

    Had I said enough, telegraphed the message sufficiently? Did he have the guts to pick me up? One look at his crotch and I could see that his cock was getting firm.

    He moved to the seat beside me, like he could be intimate now. Then he toyed with a lock of my brunette pageboy and whispered, “You don’t suppose that leaving with me could be what you’re after?”

    I smiled. “I suppose it could be.”

    His snigger played out all over his face, in his eyes and the way his breathing changed, dropping deeper into his crotch, which was what this was all about—two hungry crotches.

    Digging into his pocket, he pulled out a wad of bills and threw a few on the bar, nodding to the bartender. The man polishing shot glasses stared at me judgmentally; he knew what I was doing. Then my cowboy slithered off the seat in my direction, putting his arm around me in one smooth motion. Once on our feet, we moved to the back of the bar and out the steel door into the night.

    The air beyond was fresh, a hint of the salty ocean stinging the nostrils. I picked up the scent of frying food and asphalt and exhaust fumes from a diesel truck.

    I’ll give him credit; he was bluntly honest, asking before he acted: “Do I take the time to court, Ellie, or can we make this quick?”

    “Long as it’s raunchy, quick is fine with me,” I said.

    He smiled, chuckling under his breath, rolling his head a little in amazement. “You know, it’s like a guy doesn’t get it any better than this.”

    “So?” I was waiting, wanting him to make a move, a real move, like slap me against the cement wall, push me flat against the cold surface and fuck me hard, real hard, from behind. But once he got over his amazement, he gathered me to his side again and we hustled through the streets and alleys, taking a maze of twists and turns. Finally, as if he was working up the courage, he stopped on a bridge, an old bridge connecting the industrial neighborhood we just left with the residential slums. He pushed me against the rail and I looked down on the street below, seeing cars and trucks and one big motor home breeze on into the night.

    Moving in behind me with a warm crotch and chest, his hand reached inside my stretchy top and grabbed a tit, two fingers finding a nipple and squeezing hard enough that I let out a little shriek.

    “Might be wise to be quiet here, huh?” he whispered in my ear.

    “You’re right,” I whispered back.

    With his right hand on my breast, the left hand went under my leather skirt, raising it high, showing off the garterbelt and the naked flesh beneath. It might have been quite a sight to see the exhibition, but the night around us was lonely and deserted. “You do smell like something special, Ellie Barnes. Like expensive perfume,” he murmured. His nose nuzzled my neck; his tongue tasted my skin; his lips bit down on my flesh and produced an urgent spasm in my belly.

    Hum… and he could tell expensive perfume from cheap? I noted with a delicate sigh, just before I started to grind my ass back against his groin.

    “I’m wet,” I informed him.

    His hand moved to the succulent valley between my thighs, seeking the entrance to my pussy.

    “You sure are,” he drawled. Such happy admiration!

    His member throbbed against the back of my thigh, and when it was freed from inside his pants, I felt the raw fervent muscle against my naked ass. It started to prod, moving into the cleft between my cheeks, hitting my asshole first—which doesn’t easily give—then searching deeper, lower, for the pulse of my wet pussy.

    Our warm pheromones clashed in the steamy air. It was a night fit for groveling.

    Sliding in, he sighed. I sighed in return, being grateful and happy to have him, happy to know I’d scored a raunchy ride on a night like this—on a night when I needed anonymous more than I needed the merciless probing eyes and cock and heart of Garrison Tate.

    Damn Garrison Tate, anyway! My pestered mind screeched… when the thought of him interrupted the moment. Damn him for meeting me here on this bridge, for finding my mind with his. For getting inside, as if I still wanted him telling me what to do.

    Dammit, Garrison Tate, I’m going to fuck my cowboy, I silently screamed.

    “Oh, yes baby,” I vented in a quiet voice.    

    “Yeah, you gonna cum, baby,” Casey answered, his voice a breathless growl.

    “Oh, yes, I’m gonna cum. Yes! Fuck me!” I was getting too loud. I knew that.

    But my cowboy didn’t care. His warm breath was at my neck, my ear. His wet lips kissed the side of my throat. His hands, his strong, firm, muscled hands squeezed my naked ass cheeks, and his cock worked wonders, rubbing places that make me squeal, make me hot. Yes! He made me need to cum.  

    I started to sweat. Another waft of sexual odors greeted my nostrils. I ground a little harder back against him, grunting now and seething under my breath, “Fuck me, baby, fuck me, fuck me, YES YES HARDER!” More intense, heavier breathing. He was getting into his rhythm and was ready for the explosive end. He gave me one last hard thrust and held my ass to his groin, shooting spasm after spasm after spasm into my quivering hole. Amazingly, he reached around and teased my clitty just enough to trigger the finish in me.

    YES YES YES!  I was screaming—to myself, I think. Although I’m not sure I didn’t announce it to the world.

    Yet no one came running. No sounds echoed off the building and all was quiet once
we stopped. Even the street below the bridge was empty of all traffic.

    I felt negligent afterwards. No Tate to upbraid me for being bad. No punishment. No sweet refuge in the startling pain of a physical rebuke. Something was missing after we righted ourselves and I wiped my crotch on his handkerchief and straightened my clothes. I felt free and sad and guilty, all at the same time. Something was missing, something lost, but these were all silent thoughts I’d never share with an anonymous lover.

    Casey made himself presentable, while both of us filled the awkward moment with a compendium of wistful sighs until we couldn’t sigh anymore. Someone had to say something.

    He spoke first. “You do this often?”

    I stared at him a moment, not knowing what to say. “No, no, not really.” I had my first flustered, self-conscious moment.

    “Any special reason?”

    “Just a bad breakup,” I managed, wishing we didn’t have to make small talk.

    “I see.” He seemed as ready to move on as I was, but added, much to my surprise, “So, I suppose it’s too much to think you’d want to go at it again, huh?”

    Go at it. How quaint, I thought, while I was trying to figure out how to respond.

    “I don’t know. Could it be better than this?” I wondered aloud.

    “Maybe.” He smiled a crooked, charming smile. “I run the machinery at the amusement park and live in the Carousel building. Some women like the added thrill of a wild ride, if you know what I mean?”

    I didn’t know what he meant, not exactly. But the thought of amusement parks and carnival rides, cotton candy and stale popcorn tend to feed the girl in me with unseemly desires. If this Casey Ingram could fulfill my seedy fantasies, then he wasn’t just my cowboy fuck for an evening; he was a man of minor miracles, able to lift me out of my sexual impoverishment like a bold knight.