Tag Archives: thigh

PIANO By M. Earl Smith

It was the last day of my summer job as a grant writer at the community college we both called home, and oddly, that Friday was the same day that the last of the student straggled in to return their books. Normally, I worked only half a day on Fridays, but seeing as I was trying to finalize all of my contributions before leaving, I agreed to work the full day. You, on the other hand, had left your gig at your dad’s store around 3:30, as you always do, and headed to return your books. You knew I was there, I knew you were coming, and nobody else knew that we’d be within reach of each other. It was a perfect storm.

I finished my work early and jogged over to the main college hall, just in time to gather all of your books from you with a grin. The assistant dean, with a wary eye, followed us out and, without a word, climbed into her car and left. Settling your books into your car, I watched her go with a mild disdain. “She is not the friendliest of people, that’s for sure.”

Shrugging, you glanced around quickly before pulling me in for a kiss.  I was surprised, yet I returned it with as much enthusiasm as you had given it with. Chuckling, I looked around.

“The main lecture hall is unlocked, and there’s a piano in there.” I grabbed your hand and pulled you in that direction. “Come play Fur Elise for me.”

You giggled as we made our way into the lecture hall. As we slid in, I managed to lock the door behind us. The blinds were pulled shut, the doings of the maintenance department, for an event the night prior. As you sat down at the piano, I laughed, and pulled up a chair, as I always did, right next to you. Without warning, you produced a blindfold, and pulled it down over your eyes. True to form, you ran through half a dozen songs before playing Fur Elise, and, with little effort, nailed it.

Pulling the blindfold off, you grinned. “I can play regardless of the distraction,” you boasted.

It took me all of three seconds to slide out of the chair. Pulling the bench out, while still leaving you within arm’s length, I slid under the piano and grinned. Pulling the bench back into place, I pulled your thighs apart and began to run the tips of my fingers down them.

“Play.” I commanded, as I felt your thighs tense under my touch.

Reaching for the piano, you started to play again, the notes solid and true. In the beginning, all I did was run my fingers along your thighs, but as you started to play the second song, I slid my left hand up your shorts, rubbing your pussy through your panties.  I felt you tense, even as you became wet under my touch, and yet the notes did not falter.

Grinning, I increased my efforts as the third song started. My left hand slipped inside your panties, and continued to work on your pussy, using two fingers to run circles around your lips as I hummed along with the song. Meanwhile, my right hand slowly started to work your shorts off, inch by inch.

You finally faltered, and shook your head, yet you refused to let me know that I was distracting you, even as your shorts fell to your ankles. Undeterred, and as you started a new song, I pulled your panties to the side and moved in, inserting a thumb into your pussy as I did so. I started licking you, in slow, agonizing circles, as you slowly began to work your hips.

Somehow, you made it to another song, one that was beyond complex, and involved a lot of movement. You managed to work yourself against my tongue and fingers, although you barely miss a note. Even still, your thighs were shaking at this juncture.

You barely finished the song and started the next, when, in an explosion, you came harder than I can ever recall. Your cries of passion echoed down the hallways, and in a final moment of defiance, you banged against the keys violently, almost rendering me deaf in the process. I didn’t mind, however. Feeling you abandon the keys and grab my hair in double handfuls, to pull my eager mouth towards your pussy as you come all over my face, was reward enough.

After a moment, you sighed, panting, and looked down at me.

“Okay, you win,” you said lightly.

Wiping my chin, I grinned. “I’m not the only winner here.”

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Stabbing Pleasure By Sunni Brock

I smell your desire
Inhaling your breath
As our tongues touch then embrace
And I reach downward
Smoothing the warm mist of perspiration
Over the tingling hairs of your navel

You rise suddenly and
Your arrow pricks my finger
Leaving a single drop of sticky sweetness
On my throbbing fingertip

My nipples are racing
To escape their bindings
I feel my thighs trembling
My stomach tightens

I am clenching
Moist, warm, and waiting
Engorged with the thrill
Of your immanent entry

Maneuvering my hips over yours
Freeing my full breasts
And cupping them
Into your face

Biting, teasing, nibbling
A direct nerve
Between my bosom
And maidenhead

I feel your arrow tapping
Ready to accept my invitation
I am so swollen it aches
Engorged to the edge of ecstasy

Breath held for a moment
My lips part in anticipation
Then the tip barely probing
I feel myself spreading slowly
You gliding gently, firmly in

In…

In…

Deeper,
Slowly,
Ever deeper
Until I can hardly –

Your
Arrow
Plunges
Deeply
Into
My
Open
Heart

…and I gasp as I teeter on the brink

and you retreat

then stab again

and again

and I die a little

again

and again

Until I break open
Gushing love from my legs
in a torrent release of rapture
flowing down the creases of our bodies
into rivulets over the sheets

For The Love Of Legs And Feet By Michael F.

I no longer know how to stand.

It is the way she is seated on the bench by prearrangement, her husband on the other side of her with his newspaper turned open as he feigns to read the latest headlines when in fact his eyes are perusing me.

My body aches its way toward the vacant spot next to her on the bench.  My hand then does as we originally discussed, moving slowly, lightly, as casually as a leaf in the breeze, toward the nylon clad thigh that awaits there, the smooth knee beneath the mesh, the rising and tapering calf, the foot deep into a wave of straps and spike and leather, flitting unceremoniously back and forth near the walkway where the pigeons gather restlessly for remnants of some other stranger’s crumbs.

When my fingertips make first contact with the nylon I am a fountain of arousal, the sensation extending as if through my bloodstream down into my legs which weaken with it, my heart beating out a military cadence, my throat as arid as Sahara, my passion rising so that I must cross my legs in order not to divulge it.  Divulging it would go against the rules that we have predetermined.

This is to be casual, her husband’s gravelly voice demanded, it is to be innocent while at once be fiery with suppressed desire.  For the love of legs and feet, of stockings and leathers, is alternately arousing and hidden in the nature of our society.  There are many like me who wander about day to day, dazzled by the click of certain footsteps on the walks, the faint pungency of a shoe half dangled from a stocking foot, the gentle arch of said same foot like a triumphal passage into a conquerable and conquered city.

My reach extends further onto her thigh and even slightly up the skirt which has convenient slits along the sides for such surreptitious inspection, my hand flat against her hip, my body sorely tempted to drift over to her, closer to her, when it must not.

As if anticipating my anxiety she adjusts closer to me and the pressure of my hand against her hip grows more fervent, stronger, deeper, warmer and more proximate.  She opens her legs ever so slightly, almost imperceptibly to the passing eye but to me it is the parting of the Red Sea, a biblical proportion of exposure, almost as if I could smell the oceanic conjure of her desire in the deep crevasse between her legs.

In another setting, in a closed room, I would surely by now be down upon my knees, rubbing my hands against her thighs in order to open them still further, burying my face deep within her, rending a tiny slit within the crotch of her panties so that I might taste the full pungency of her desire.

Instead I must content myself with the hand deflecting off and brushing along her calf as I traverse my way downward, falsifying motions like I am offering a crumb to one of the bobble headed pigeons nearby when I am in fact now caressing the heel of her shoe and seeking to open it ever so slightly, for all of this is about opening, all of it is about the concealment of this special form of lust and then opening it in all its raw red beauty to the world around us so that it must forcibly accept it once and for all, so that there are no more assignations on park benches to leave its occupants to later masturbate in darkened rooms.

No instead there should be a full exposure of the shoe, the foot, the leg, the nylons, so that there might be full exposure of my desire as well, and then hers, so that the pornography, the atomization of the body into these component parts, at last bears a connection to the tongues and fingers and penises and vaginas that will bring the entirety of the figures into total climax.

Instead I recognize the gesture of the husband folding his newspaper to tuck beneath his arm, his hand encasing his bride’s, the two of them standing up and dusting themselves off as if from my contact, he nodding, she nodding, I nodding, all of us like ridiculous wind-up dolls bobbing and nodding as we depart from one another sans climax, sans satisfaction, just bearing memories that we will take to other rooms and other lovers and scatter them like pollen in the covers to plant deeper seeds within our souls.