Friday, February 6, 2009

Fantasy On the Hill

Like most CFIDS sufferers, my body reacts to exercise like it was toxic.

This isn’t a joke, like a saying “I’m allergic to work” as an excuse for laziness. My body literally cannot tolerate an exercise regimen. (Chronic Fatigue Immune Dysfunction Syndrome has fucked me up in many, many ways.)

I can, however, walk. Before I got sick, I used to walk all the time. I probably walked a couple of miles a day – not for exercise, but simply to get from place to place. I didn’t drive, so I walked. Then I got sick, and I pretty much just quit going places.

The Return of the Pedestrian

In August of 2005, I had to walk to Zorch’s parent’s house every morning for nearly a week. (Zorch and his family were away for a week, and I was getting paid to water their garden every morning.) I didn’t die as a result of it. So, when I no longer needed to go there, I went out anyway. Walked a little further. And a little further. In a month or so, I was walking nearly a mile each day. Then a mile and a half. Sure, upon my return home, I was a sweaty, heaving, gasping-for-breath, wreck. But after resting for awhile, I was okay again. Just walking didn’t seem to have any major long lasting detrimental effect on me.

So, I walked. I walked enough that I actually started losing some weight. (Shock!)

I walked pretty much every day from August until late December, at which point I got horribly sick. It was a cold, but it was one of ‘my colds’, which are usually affect me worse and for longer than the average cold affects a normal person. I was sick with this damn thing from just before Christmas until early March. I did no walking during that time.

Starting up again was a slow process. Everything hurt worse than it did the first time back in August. But I kept at it until I was walking regularly again. This time my body didn’t like the walking as much. I’d walk every day for a few weeks, and then my body would simply shut down for anywhere from a few days to a week.

That became the cycle for awhile. Walk a few weeks. Take a week or so off due to my health taking (a probably exercise-related) nose-dive. Yet, the more I walk, the more weight I lose, which is good for me in the long run, so . . . I don’t know which is better.

The Fucking Hill

When I started walking, I was going up the hill. That fucking hill. It’s a steep one. Some of the people who walk it in the mornings refer to it as ‘Cardiac Hill’ because it gets your heart pumping (or causes it to explode in your chest, or something).

At my most walkingest (huh, spellchecker doesn’t like ‘walkingest’), I’d go out twice a day. Once up and down that fucking hill, and once downtown and back, for a grand total of about three and a quarter miles.

After I stopped and restarted, it was an either/or-but-not-both thing. And currently, well . . . the library where my internet access lives is at the top of that fucking hill. So sometimes I have to walk up there. Although usually I’ll get a ride up, and just walk back. (Walking back home from there is still 9/10ths of a mile.)

Why Am I Telling You This? has started a new feature called “The Week In Kink”. Sex bloggers are encouraged to e-mail them a link to “(their) kinkiest favorite blog post of the week”. The folks at bestsexbloggers then compile these and post the links on their site once a week. So at the beginning of this week, there was a link to my “Humiliation Girl” post on their site, as my entry for last week.

What this means is that I need to start kinking up the blog. (Something I’ve been contemplating doing anyway.) Posting something along the lines of a dirty little sex fantasy or similar once a week, so that I’ve got the kind of thing they’re looking for to link to.

The Humiliation Girl piece fit, containing snippets of HG and my naughty correspondence as it did. And I’ve got a piece on the schedule for next week that should qualify. But I still needed something to write about this week . . .

Prelude to Fantasy

I’m not the only one that walked up that fucking hill each morning. There were others. Little old ladies. Little old men. Other fat people. New moms pushing strollers, trying to work off their pregnancy weight. Young MILFs pushing strollers who had already worked off their pregnancy weight, and were keeping up on the fitness routine.

There were also other people there who were using that fucking hill to stay in shape, rather than get in shape.

Some of these people are women. And some of these women are hot. Young, hot, physically fit . . .

Partway up the hill there’s a bench where I usually sit down to rest. (It’s either sit down there, or pass out ten feet or so later. Have I mentioned that the fucking hill is an absolute killer?)

And as I sit there on that bench, people walk past. Some of them being these young, hot, physically fit women.

I’m hot, sweaty, my pulse is rapid, I’m practically hyperventilating, and I’m watching young, hot, physically fit women walk by, and the whole thing seems to trigger the sex fantasy portion of my brain. And the next thing I know, my eyes are closed, and I’m living in my head.

It’s not one woman. Not one specific person. It’s just . . . Toned. Sneakers. Shorts or sweatpants. Brunette ponytail. (I’d fantasize about a redhead, but honestly, the only redhead I’ve ever seen on that fucking hill is me.) And with a secret burning desire for me.

The Fantasy Goes Something Like This . . .

She comes up to the bench, not jogging, not even walking fast, but slightly limping. I slide over to one side to make room for her, and she sits down next to me and begins untying her pink and white sneaker.

“Are you okay?” I ask. She nods her head, and informs me that she thinks she’s somehow gotten a rock in her shoe. Turns out that she had – a sharp, pointy rock. She pulls her sock off to check out the sole of her foot, make sure there isn’t any actual damage.

Her toenails are painted a bright, fire-truck red. She wiggles her toes as she examines her smooth bare sole, gently stroking it with her thumbs. I let out a soft, involuntary groan, and she freezes, then casts her eyes up at me.

So, I’m caught. I like feet. Big deal. I meet her eyes and shrug my shoulders. She gives me a smile that I can’t quite interpret, and then starts wiggling her toes again. She looks into my eyes, then down at her foot. The message is clear. “Go ahead. Look.”

I look. She wiggles her toes at me. I grin, and give her foot a little wiggly-fingered wave. She spreads her toes as wide apart as they’ll go, then brings them back, she rotates her foot around at the ankle, she flexes and contracts . . . my next groan is not involuntary, and makes her smile at me. Then she says, “Touch it.”

I take her foot in my hands. Stroking it with my fingertips. I touch her toes. I brush my fingers along the sole of her foot. I push her painted toenails like buttons.

She leans out from the bench, looking first up the path, then back the way she came. Satisfied that nobody’s about to walk right up to us, she looks back at me and says, “Taste it.”

No hesitation. I lift her foot up to my face, and lick the bottom of her slightly sweat-damp foot from her heel to her toes. Of course, once my mouth arrives at her toes, it can’t help but start sucking them into it’s mouth.

A minute or so later she yanks her foot out of my mouth and puts it flat down on the bench. I’m about to ask why when I notice other people walking down the path. Potential witnesses to anything we might be doing.

She rubs her foot for a few moments, then puts her sock back on. She’s putting her shoe on as the passerby pass by, and it’s tied by time they’ve rounded the bend and are out of sight.

She makes eye contact with me again. She looks playful. Mischievous. She slides her hand inside the waistband of her sweats and downward between her legs. Then she files this report: “Your sucking on my toes made me wet.”

Huh. Well, first of all, something for me to be proud of. Second of all, I’m not really sure how she wants me to react. I say, “Sorry?” the apology asked as a question.

She giggles, which turns me on even more than I already am. Then she stands up, and tells me to come with her. And I follow her a little bit down the path to the tank.

[Not far from the bench is a mostly underground water tank, capped off by a large (probably eight foot on a side) concrete block.]

We get to the tank, and she goes off the path, moving around behind the tank’s concrete block cap. The ground is lower behind the tank than in front of it, so unless someone veers off the path, we’re completely hidden from view back here.

“Make sure nobody’s coming,” she tells me. I peer around the side of the cap, and look down the path. Nobody.

When I look back she’s pulled off her top and stepped out of her sweats, standing there in just her socks and sneakers, a pair of white cotton panties, and a matching sports bra. My god, she’s hot. Those sweats were hiding a great pair of legs. “Give me your hands,” she tells me.

I hold my hands out to her. She takes hold of my left hand, and slides it in underneath her bra, placing it directly on her right breast. Then she lets it go, and takes my right hand, sliding it down inside of her panties. “Just so there isn’t any confusion,” she tells me, “about what I was expecting you to do.”

Hint taken. My left hand starts squeezing her firm tit, quickly closing in to play with her hard nipple. My right hand explores lower, finding a tiny nest of pubes, finding what feel like very wet pussy lips, and upon sinking a finger inward, finding an even wetter pussy.

I pinch her nipple, softly at first, but with increasing intensity as I ask, “Do you like this?” She nods her head, and mumbles, “Uh-huh”.

“How hard can I go?” This question, accompanied by a serious increase in the pinching of the nipple.

She closes her eyes and says, “You’re not going to break me.” Girl after my own heart. I give her right nipple a rest and head on over to play ‘equal time’ with the left.

Meanwhile, down below, I’m slowly fingerfucking her. Her hips are starting to rock a little in time to my thrusts, letting me know that she’s really getting into this. I add a second finger inside of her, and then send my thumb in search of her clit. Finding that makes all the difference.

She puts one of her arms over my shoulder, around my neck. The other goes around my side. Once she has stabilized her position against me she softly growls, “Work my pussy . . . make me cum . . .”

I slack off on the attention I’m paying her breasts to focus my efforts on fingering her. Pumping her pussy with a pair of fingers while stroking her clit with my thumb. She’s a very responsive girl, and it doesn’t take very long for her legs to buckle. She buries her face in my chest and screams.

I half expect a dozen concerned joggers to come running around to where we are to see what the problem is, but either nobody heard her muffled orgasmic cries, or nobody wanted to get involved.

She reaches down and grabs hold of my wrist, stopping me from continuing. Then pulls my hand out of her. “I’m sorry,” she says. “Too much, too soon. Sensation overload down there.”

I start to tell her that it’s okay, but that’s when she takes hold of my right wrist again, and brings my wet sticky fingers up to her lips. I watch transfixed as she cleans her juices off of me with her tongue, sucking them dry in her mouth.

She goes to the edge of the water tank cap, and cautiously peers around the side, still in her underwear. Then she comes back, and slowly slides her hand inside the band of my sweatpants, then down toward my cock. I’m already hard when she locates it, taking it in her hand and stroking it a few times.

She looks up at me for any sign of protest, and – finding none – proceeds to slide my sweatpants and shorts down. She plays with me for a few minutes, then lets go and reaches into her pile of clothing, digging into the pocket of her sweats. “We should probably hurry – we’re lucky we haven’t already been caught. Would you like me to suck your cock for you? Or,” she asks, as she produces a condom, “would you like to fuck me?”

“Do you always carry a condom when you’re out walking?”

She blushes at this, and turns her face away from me. She keeps me in the periphery of her vision, but won’t look me in the eye. “Only since the second time I saw you walking up here . . .”

“This condom is for me? I mean, specifically for me?”

She nods her head, still not making eye contact with me. So I lean forward, and lift up the bottom of her earlobe with my tongue, then take it between my teeth and tug playfully at it for a moment before letting go and asking my next question.

“And just what is it about me that caught your attention?”

She lays her head on my chest and speaks softly. “I like big guys.”

I enjoy having her head against me. I wrap my arm around her and stroke her hair for a few moments before speaking again. “Well,” I finally say. “It doesn’t seem right that you’ve been carrying this condom around with you all this time and never get to use it . . .”

She jerks her head off of me, grinning excitedly. She rips the condom wrapper open and pulls out the little latex circle, then slides down and plays with my cock for a few minutes, making sure it’s fully erect. Fingers on the shaft, lips and tongue on the head. Then she puts the condom in place, and rolls it down.

Standing back up, she slides her panties down her legs and steps out of them, then bends over in front of me, holding onto the cap of the water tank for support. “I want you to fuck me . . . I want you to put it in me and let me make you cum with my hot little wet little pussy . . .”

Who am I to refuse a request like that? I step up and position my condom-covered cock at her opening, and slowly push forward. I sink into her. She’s slick but tight. And hot. I start pumping in and out of her, and slick becomes slippery. Tight becomes slightly less so. I reach down and around her and find her clit again, assaulting it from the front while I invade her from behind.

Now she’s even slipperier. And squirmy. Her soft moans integrate well with her heavy breathing, although I’m fairly certain that she’s having to make an effort to be this quiet. But it’s a race. I can already feel my orgasm building, and I really want her to get off again, too.

I continue sliding my cock in and out of her dripping wet pussy while working over her clit with two fingers, one along either side of it. And then, mere moments before I would have stopped playing with her due to the arrival of my own orgasm, she finally cums. She cums, and then I give her a few final pumps before pushing myself hard into her, as deep as I can go, and shooting my load into the condom while buried in her to the hilt.

Later: After our breathing has returned to normal we’ve gotten redressed, and we’ve managed to sneak back out from behind the water tank without anyone catching us, she tells me that she’ll be up here again about this time tomorrow. I laugh, and tell her that I will too . . . now.

Of Course, Then I Open My Eyes Again

Once the fantasy is over, I’m still just sitting alone on that bench.

And now I have to finish walking with a hard-on.

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