After Me

After Me After Me

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Details

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Summary

Being the adventures of a young man pursued by a sexually aggressive co-worker.

Summary

Being the adventures of a young man pursued by a sexually aggressive co-worker.

Chapter1 (v.1) - Opening Remarks

Author Chapter Note

Our story begins.

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: March 16, 2012

Reads: 1583

Comments: 1

A A A | A A A

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: March 16, 2012

A A A

A A A

I suppose I should avoid the temptation to begin by suggesting thatI never intended for any of this to happen.

First, after these past four months with Bonnie, the mere thought of ever voicing as unoriginal an idea as that again makes me queasy. It’s not that I was always this committed to authenticity. Quite the contrary, as a matter of fact. Before I met Bonnie, I’d have been deeply satisfied with assigning such a vapid caption to the events of my life.

But not anymore.

Not after Bonnie.

When she found me, I was a lost animal wandering aimlessly in wilderness, separated from the herd and stumbling about in mute desolation. I had collected several birthdays, and I was proud of them---keeping them stacked in my pocket like a sleeve of quarters. But I was immature. Crude and undeveloped. I painted the world gray to appear vibrant by contrast.

But she knew. Instinctively, she understood what I was and how she could get to me.

That’s why it’s a mistake to infer from all this that she rescued me or that I was somehow saved from myself by her gentle intervention. That couldn’t be further from the truth. When she spotted me that day on the elevator, she was no angel of mercy.

She was a lioness.

And I was her helpless, succulent prey. I can imagine how her belly must have churned in anticipation at the prospect of devouring me. Once in her sights, she stalked me easily. She sized me up. She identified my several and obvious weaknesses and then she commenced to overwhelm me.

Quickly.

In the end, in the fast seconds before she deftly overtook me and then silently gathered me up, it wasn’t difficult or painful at all. It was actually a relief. As I relaxed and consented to her inevitability, something inside me loosened and I felt all those years of practiced deceit slacken and then drain from my limbs and spiral away. I then gave myself to her as a final act of obedience. As if I’d been waiting for that moment all my life.

And she felt it. I’m sure of it. Though we never spoke of it, I’m certain it pleased her to have authored my transformation. How else to explain the care she took in pulling me back to her lair, dismantling me and then rearranging my every part. And when I was reassembled--as I lay naked across her lap nursing at her twin ruby nipples--was she not uniquely pleased? Not simply at my having sated, however temporarily, her ravenous lust, but at this new creation suckling her breast?

So no, I have no further use of cliches. They’re quite dead to me now, in fact. I’ll speak now of Bonnie the only way I now remain able to.

Simply.

Reverentially.

The devoted testimony of the recently converted.

But that’s all really beside the point. There’s another, far less complicated reason I can’t possibly say I didn’t intend this, and it’s got nothing to do with it being cliche.

I can’t say it because it’s a lie.

Not to put too fine a point on it, but Bonnie is the most supremely fuckable woman I’ve ever seen.

And when I say “fuckable”, I certainly don’t mean “pretty” or “beautiful” or even “sexy”. I know what those words mean, and they’re not what Bonnie is. That’s not so say that she isn’t all of those things, because she is. Just different.

Pretty freckles.

Beautiful strawberry blond hair.

Sexy hips churning beneath too-tight skirts.

But the trouble with these words is that they’re tiny. Like pebbles dropped into a well. They are insufficient to capture the enormity of her sexual presence. So she is those things, only not. Somehow. Like taking photographs out the window of a moving car. You’ll get an image or two if you’re lucky, but you’ll never capture the motion. That dizzying, belly-twisting euphoria you get when you stick your head out there at sixty miles an hour.

Bonnie is like that.

Pure instinct. Her body an instrument of purpose, tuned by nature to animate her primitive cravings.

Her legs, hips and mouth.

Her breasts.

They are all extensions of her innate desire. By themselves, they might perhaps be mistaken for ordinary, but only by those unaware of the ravenous beast at her core which orchestrates their every movement.

That’s why looking at her--as I did for the first time that day--it’s actually quite difficult to intend anything other than to fuck her. Not to make love. Not to have sex.

To fuck her.

To lift her skirt. To slide your palm down her back and slowly nudge her over the side of your desk. To patiently reach down between her legs and urge her thighs apart. Further. A little bit more. Her soft, white thighs. Thick. Coated with a sheen of sweat and the tang of adrenaline. To trace your thumb up from the back of her knee and nestle it into the crease of her buttocks. Silky fur tickling your knuckles. To then slide her panties to one side of her hot, slippery hole and then plunge deeply into her while she looks back over her shoulder and whimpers. Eyes rolled back. Biting her lower lip. Hair fanned across her pretty face.

And she does more than simply understand this. She assumes it. She relies on it. It’s the rhythm which thrums from her and captivates those lucky enough to become entranced with it.

So.

While it is technically true that in the beginning it was impossible for me to fathom the precise depth of the depravity which was to follow, it would be ridiculous for me to suggest that I didn’t intend to follow her wherever she led.

So I won’t start that way. Instead, I’ll start at the beginning.


© Copyright 2018 Billy Kane. All rights reserved.

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