I know, I’ve been remiss in doing anything with this blog. I don’t know if sharing my sexy homework makes up for that, but I hope it does. There’s no actual sex in this story, just fantasies, discussions, and remembrances of sex. The scene is told first from the woman, Jessica’s perspective, and then we see it from her boyfriend Paul’s perspective.
A smile still teased my lips. Paul, my boyfriend, looked hot in his frilly shirt, tight vest and breeches, silk stockings with silk ribbon garters, and court shoes, all cream and baby blue. I loved when he let me dress him.
The car breaking down sucked. Paul had called for a tow truck, and now he was calling someone from the party for a ride. It would be a travesty to spend an hour dressing up for a masque and miss it.
I fumbled beside me for the lever and lowered my seat. I put my exotic new boots up on the dash.
“Minx,” he said, slipping back into his seat.
“So, how long?” I asked.
“Indeterminate. They need to either find someone sober enough to drive, or wait for someone to show up.”
“I guess we’ll have to keep ourselves amused.” I didn’t push my tits at him, although they looked luscious in the black leather corset. I didn’t try some exotic contortion to show my ass. I wiggled my feet at him, and his eyes popped out of his head.
My expensive new boots had been shipped from England, and upon their arrival in the states, they were torn from their tissue paper and fornicated with, or upon, I’m not sure which was more accurate. My boyfriend had a thing for leather boots. When I came how, he’d proudly asked me to see if I could tell where he had cleaned his spunk from my boots. I could, but he was so excited I’d lied.
Paul made me strip down and trot around in the boots for a few minutes, then it was time to get ready. We had a reputation to uphold. Paul’s dick was so hard he could barely get his breeches on. Our theme was rococo-punk, or something. We looked good, that was the main thing. Before we left, Paul had rubbed his crotch against the sole of my boot, stroking the red seam of my Cuban-heel stocking. He had to walk hunched over like an awkward teenager.
“It’s too bad we don’t know when people are coming. I could finger myself and you could play with these.” Wiggle.
Paul’s hand was on his crotch, and he rubbed himself against it. “And?”
“This time you can come in me and lick my boots.”
“I thought about that,” he said. “I thought about you legs in your stocking, the taste of leather on my tongue, and your hot pussy.” At the last word his hips thrust up.
“It’s too bad I’m not wearing those old-timey crotchless bloomers. You could just bend me over the hood of the car and have your way with me.”
Paul’s face wrinkled, like all the blood rushing to his dick left his head dehydrated. He fiddled with the fastenings of his breeches.
“Hey mister, none of that,” I said and slapped his hand away.
He lunged over the consol. He knew better than to kiss me when I was wearing this much makeup, so he buried his face in my breasts instead. He cupped my mound over my satin bloomers.
“Baby, you’ll get my costume all wet,” I said. And he would. At the hot press of his fingers the moisture was seeping out of me.
He had a wicked grin as he looked up. He licked my teeth, careful of my lipstick, and went back to smashing his face in my tits. His hand slipped into my bloomers and he stroked the soft cotton of my underwear. “Fuck, you are wet.”
I pushed him back into his seat. He stared at me and licked his fingers.
This is what we were going to do until someone came to get us, play, How hot can you make me?
It was Paul’s turn, and I yanked my foot up to my mouth. With my tongue I traced the patterns on the leather. Wedging myself against the door, I got my other foot into Paul’s lap. He cradled the heel against his hard-on.
“You’re going to make me come,” he said as I laved the leather of my boot like it was a sentient creature to be pleasured by my tongue. “I’m going to have a huge stain on my crotch, because you’re so hot making out with that boot.”
Headlights flashed and slowed. Either our ride was here or the tow truck had arrived. I jerked upright and tried to compose myself. Paul just laughed.
These pants were strangling my boner. I could hear Jessica in my head, telling me, They’re breeches Paul. As she dressed me, she explained the garments. The words went in one ear and out the other. I watched her hands linger on the fastenings, her parted lips, her eyes darkening with lust.
When the car broke down, I called a tow truck and got in touch with someone at the party. I neither knew nor cared why Jessica got so wet at costume parties, my focus was on making it happen, and that sweet drunken sex at the end of the night, drooping feathers smashed on the pillow, a mouth full of makeup.
When I got back in the car, she had her boots up for me to see. “Minx.” The afterimage of my cock against the heel burned in the dark.
“So, how long?” she asked.
“Indeterminate. They need to either find someone sober enough to drive, or wait for someone to show up.” A mischievous smile curled her lips. I don’t think she knew how indulgent she was. Most women would—and reasonably may I add—object to having their brand new boots ejaculated on. My girlfriend was too wound up about the party to let anything deter her happiness. A pair of backup boots waited for us if the new ones hadn’t arrived. She was going to get hot and bothered showing off all night and vent her lust on me.
“I guess we’ll have to keep ourselves amused,” she said in a low thick tone. She moved her toe in a seductive circle. “It’s too bad we don’t know when people are coming. I could finger myself and you could play with these.”
Her toe moved in another circle, and I pictured the tip resting at the base of my cock, rubbing small pulsing spirals. My cock strained my pants and I had to press my hand against it. “And?”
“This time you can come in me and lick my boots.”
Her words enveloped me, a warm wet sheath around my imagination. The chemical sting of her new leather boots had brought tears to my eyes as I nuzzled them, fresh from their wrapping. Now they were filled with her petite feet in their silky stockings. “I thought about that,” I said. “I thought about you legs in your stocking, the taste of leather on my tongue, and your hot pussy.” My body arched off the seat.
“It’s too bad I’m not wearing those old-timey crotchless bloomers. You could just bend me over the hood of the car and have your way with me,” she said.
Her apple round ass appeared in front of me, her creamy thighs with the red stripe of her seamed stocking, the lips of her pussy peeking out from between them.
“Hey mister, none of that,” she said and slapped the back of my hand.
I hadn’t been aware of my fingers, busying themselves at my laces in an attempt to relieve my excruciating boner. It just needed a minute to stretch its legs.
Overcome with lust, I went for her tits, pressing my lips to her velvet skin. I slipped my hand between her legs.
“Baby, you’ll get my costume all wet,” she pleaded.
I had to taste her. How could I listen to her say that and not have her salt on my lips? I stuck my tongue in her mouth, something too barbaric to be called a kiss. Like a drunken noble in a brothel, I dove into her tits while my other hand sought her moisture. “Fuck, you are wet.”
She pushed me back into my seat. God it got me so hot when she manhandled me. I stuck my fingers in my mouth.
Not to be outdone, Jessica traced her new leather boots with the tip of her pink tongue. I pressed the heel of her other boot against my cock. “You’re going to make me come,” I said.
Jessica continued to put on a show for me. I should tell her she’s messing up her lipstick, but she was so hot. She wiggled in her seat, her hips rocking back and forth. “I’m going to have a huge stain on my crotch, because you’re so hot making out with that boot,” I said.
My balls got that tight feeling, my dick twitched, and the crunch of gravel announced we had company. I laughed—saved by the fucking bell, or tow truck