Sex In The Parking Lot

It is pitch-black and darksome and poorly lit outside. Outside of the car that is. The clouds too, just like the sky, are tenebrous and overcast and dusky and gray. I breathe out and suspire deeply and deeply as I look at them. Yes. Stian Elberd is perched and settled in this car of ours right next to me in the driver’s stall, and when I gaze at him, he strikes me as being studious and reflective and cogitative. Ruminative and cogitative of what? I am not acquainted with that either.

“Stian,” I whine and rumble out his name, swigging and swilling saliva down my throat as I do so. Uhmmnnn! My voice sounds to some degree craggy and rugged and two-fisted. Like I am in a gone-bad and embittered state and frame of mind. Am I genuinely? I don’t know…verily…

“Yes, Ragnhild,” he responds serenely and coolly, gazing and gawping at me in a not so impolite or insulting or unmannerly way. Damn me for that! I feel ashamed and remorseful and conscience-stricken for having been so uncivil and discourteous and ill-mannered with him. Crap. Shit me to hell if you feel like it.

“Aren’t we going back home?” I query him kindheartedly and nicely thoughtful this time around, “I mean we are finished and over with all the shopping and buying things that ushered us our way here to this mart and supermarket, is not it so?”

He first looks at me vaguely and imprecisely and then expresses the following to me, “You are on the right lines, Ragnhild. But we aren’t going back home anytime soon until after we have…have…fucked each other up in this dingy and nonpublic or in-camera car of ours, my beloved bride. Don’t you like the plan and strategy of mine?”

My goodness! We are having what I must put in words here as ‘shopping sex.’ You can dub and mark it out as ‘sex at the end of purchases and buys’ if you feel like it. Holy goodness! What is this queer proposition and recommendation and theory of Stian? Is it too logical and sound to you? To me, it hell way too far isn’t—but I have no means and courses of action with which to rebuff and rebut him of what he states and dictates to me. If he directs and bids me to take down into lettering his invaluable and priceless and exquisite and recherché name on both of my breasts and boobies and mammary glands with the utility and use of  an exceedingly whetted and serrated knife so that I lose and yield out blood and more blood vulnerably and powerlessly, I would with pleasure and cheerfully do it. After all, my very own happiness and bliss and satisfaction depends and relies on the attainment and fulfillment of his, or doesn’t it? It hell surefire does!

“Now, slip off your panties off yourself,” the decree and request is grave and seriously no laughing matter, but lenient and sweet-tempered and benign on the other hand. I work out just what the governor and overlord desires me to do.

Of course. He is all too wary and circumspect and on the qui vive and up on his toes. He studies and notes and monitors every move and man-oeuvre of mine that I transact, sweeping and scrubbing his glad, merry lips with his jolly and over-elated tongue. My goodness! Is he also going to lick my vagina?

“Excellent!” He at last exclaims to me once I am all finished and accomplished through with the uncomplicated and straightforward assignment and chore that he as of lately and not-long-ago allocated and assigned to me. “Now shut your eyes. I have got a small surprise and package for you.”

I am cudgeling my brains and asking myself on what that could be when the words abruptly and all of a sudden make their way out of my mouth—yes—even without my consent and go-ahead and authorization. Damn me for that! Fuck me to hell for it instead! “What is that pygmy surprise and Lilliputian package of yours to me, Stian?”

He grimaces and scowls at me promptly and unhesitatingly, whirling and reeling his eyes at me in annoyance and vexation as he does so. “Just close your eyes, Ragnhild, my darling and babe. Is that rocklike and intricate Chinese merely for you to empathize with and act out? Is it, Ragnhild, my sweetheart and babe?”

“Fine, Stian! I will do just what you have demanded and decreed of me.” And that is what I precisely and scrupulously do. I shut and make barred fast my eyes, breathing in and at length out inchmeal and at my very own pace and good time. Who-ow-wie! What astonishment and wonder of his is he keeping under wraps from me? What exactly? I marvel and sit dumbstruck and filled with awe and curiosity…I can only be in awe and wonderment.

Holy spanker! Is that note his hand that I feel stirring and budging up my thighs and humongous, attractive legs themselves? Yes. It is surely and beyond any misgiving or lack of conviction his hand, but then he is gripping and latching on to something, something that brushes and skims past my skin, filling me with chiming and jingling and jangling prickles and tickles and goose pimples. My goodness! I pray that he won’t cut or hurt or gash me…I entreat that he won’t carry that out to me…

Unexpectedly and on the spur of the moment, he is inside of my vagina—not him specifically, but that device and body and item that he is bracing and cradling in his hand. I can feel it smoothly and warily and charily smack and whack and flog the inner sides and interior of my vagina and clitoris. Great! This is so stunning and sensational and eye-popping. No. I don’t open or unclose my eyes because of its breath-taking and gee-whizz stroke and knell and strapping thump. I still have my eyes shut and fastened. Don’t you? Toot-sie!

Arghhhh…This gadget or gizmo or doo-dah that Stian is grasping is twisted and crooked and angled. I mean it. I can feel its tortuous and crippled-like and out-of-shape upper flange or contour or threshold worm and slink about—both in and out and both pleasurably and enjoyably—in and out of my vagina, buzz-kicking and flushing me with just too much excitement and stir and titillation and vibration. As my womb auspiciously and gleefully and blithely vibrate and fluctuate and oscillate and judder, my remainder and rest entire-self pulsates and throbs and reverberates too—all in counterblast and respond to the droning and humming and thumping and reverberation of that whatsit and thingummy and doo-dah that Stian is whisking and rustling and stimulating about my vagina and pussy. Damn him! Triple crap!

“Ragnhild,” he whoops and yells out my name, murmuring and hissing in soft tones a bit too loud in other words.

“Yes, Stian,” I answer back with all speed and like greases lightning, shivering and vibrating and palpitating as I do that.

“Ragnhild, how delectable and delicious is this thing in your vagina?”

“So, so, so delicious and pleasing, Stian.”

“Must I give you more of it or quit doing all of this right this moment?”

“No, don’t break off doing all of this, Stian! Gimme more of this…gimme more of this, honey!”

“Boffo then! Here comes more.”

He rams and pokes and prods the gadget and whatsit more and more deeper into my pussy and cunt, and as soon as he is finished and over with that, he starts smacking and cuffing and flogging it all the more faster and quicker and pleasant into me, and I give my word, I feel it deflect and warp and incurvate inside of my vagina that I suppose and imagine that it will arc and arch all the more until it has splintered and split into two inside there, leaving me with nothing more than despair and discomfort and hardship and woe. And how were we going to get it out again? How exactly?

Triple crap! That would Stian’s quandary and turf war…and not mine. It would be his answerability and liability and blame and burden. Though it would be much of a pain and trouble and suffering and  regret and remorse and guilty conscience on my portion and segment and fragment as well, don’t you think so?

“Stian,” for a stretch and interval of time, I lament and howl out my eyes at him. Please take note that at this specific moment my eyes are still shut and fastened close. Yeah…they sure are!

“Yes,” he retorts elitely and genteelly.

“Stian, I feel like that tool and instrument of yours is going to splinter and crack into two inside my vagina. Be more cautious and painstaking with it please, will you?”

“You mean…the banana?”

Goodness! There was no more puzzle or teaser or uncertainty about it, or was there still any? Stian happened to fuck and bang my vagina with a godforsaken damn banana? Can you imagine that? How foolhardy and gogga of him! Dammit!

At that point in time, I snap and tear open my eyes, horribly stunned and staggered and confound. Yes. The instant I prowl and rove around with my eyes, I see and discover that he has a godforsaken damn banana fixed and lodged inside of my vagina. I raise my voice to him forthwith and pronto, “What is a fuckin’ banana doing inside my vagina, Stian? Is this the ugly and unpleasant kind of surprise that you are having and keeping for me? Is this it?”

In embarrassment and ignominy, he flutters and flits shut and open his eyes, seemingly having no any enlightenment and science of what to do next, until he without warning and in an instant starts to kiss and smooch and canoodle me madly and hysterically.  As I am all libidinous and lascivious, I give in to his kissing without much of a row or wrangle. Yes. That is what I assuredly and exactly do to him. I lay down arms to his government and influence. I certainly do.

Goodness. These kisses and smooches and canoodles of Stain. They are gloriously and beautifully sweetened and sugary and honeyed. Yes, they are. The way he uncloses and unlatches open and unbarred his mouth adjoining and neighboring to mine, the way he smacks and whacks and clobbers his tongue against mine, the way he inhales and exhales and wheezes and gasps straight into my face…it is all so icky and syrupy and treacly and cloying that I canno help or relieve it at all. Stian is just plain damn striking and staggering and sensational at it. For real.

For an instant he refrains from necking and smooching me to gawp and eyeball me soundlessly and speechlessly. What? What is it that he is going to specifically say to me now? What expressly?

“I love you, Ragnhild—so, so, so very much. I trust that you are aware and conscious of it, are you?”

“Yes, I am aware and conscious of that, Stian. I really and truly am.”

“Good. Do you love me as well?”

“Do you question and have any reservations about my love and affection of you?”

“No, I don’t. I just want to be positive and clear about it. It is all I want. To hear it straight from you and be satisfied and assured and free from doubt always.”

“Well then, in that case, I must say that I have on every occasion loved you, Stian, and I will day in and day out continue to think the world of you. I will surely and verily keep on idolizing and being in love with you.”

“You cross your heart.”

As I grin and beam from ear to ear propitiously and auspiciously, I willingly and with lief pleasure mention to him, “Yes, Stian, I do cross my heart on that indeed; verily.”

Arghhhh! Ooo-oosh! Stian’s large and immensely attractive fingers are in my pussy and cunt, tapping and stabbing and poking inside there. Yeah. It is super. It is excellent. It is cracking topping. I adore and cherish and treasure it when he does this. It gladdens and tickles me pink. It gives me paramount most pleasure and utopia and Eden and every inch and wonderfully prepares and makes me ready for sex. That is what it does…without fail.

I catch my breath; I gulp and slurp down speedily and hastily sharp intakes of active, cracking, and headlong breaths. He necks and snogs and canoodles and pecks me all the more faster and delightfully and enjoyably, beating and knocking seven bells of bliss and delectation out of my pussy below with his lengthy, hulking, spectacular, and strenuous fingers—and as he does and accomplishes all this, he is inclining and tilting and slanting himself over me in the passenger’s seat, bright-eyed and bush-tailed.

Stian; the passion and endearment of my life; the guy and chap and dude of my dreams; I love him so very much…don’t you yourself?

For a little and ephemeral while and whim, he stoops and inclines himself down so that he can inurn and embed in his tongue deep into my pussy and cunt down there. Yeah. He does it steadily and by gradual and measured but definite degrees at first, then, as he presses on and on, he boosts and steps us his rapidity and quickness, lapping and licking his tongue into me all the hell lot faster and faster. Yeah. It is all sugary and honey-like indeed.

Arghhhh…arghhhh! My reasoning and thoughts are so muddled up and Greek-fazed and muddy and mucky and boggy and skanky and quaggy as the blurred and lusterless and smoky waters…Yeah. So, so fuzzy and quite, quite obfuscated at the same time…

Stian is fucking and licking me good real time. How come he is a professional and virtuoso and maestro at sex? Warm-up and practice makes proficient and versed, doesn’t it? It certainly and without a doubt and assuredly does. Yeah…it awfully and honestly and actually does.

In such a cautious and fastidious and very discreet way, Stian nibbles and clamps and gnaws and masticates my clitoris with his all zest and keen and sharply teeth, making me become shaky and hysterical and flustered and on edge. Yes. As much as that delights and cheers and amuses me, it makes me tense and fearful and tormented that he might chew and tear and snap my vagina and high-priced clitoris itself otherwise. Wouldn’t you get edgy and jittery and twitchy and nervy if you were indeed in my shoes? Wouldn’t you?

I gasp and catch my breath once more. When will all this sweetness and sugar of mine that I am relishing and enjoying right now end and nip in the bud? When exactly? For the two shake and trice—or moment in other clashing but homogeneous words, I am taking joy and finding satisfaction in this. Aren’t you?

In a snap tick and two-shakes twinkling, Stain warps and buckles and stoops and incurvates my seat or stall down. I for the nonce and forthwith arch and wind and flex down along with it. Yes. My elongated and extensive and far-reaching and lengthy light brown hair cascades and plummets down while I topple and go head over heels downwards too. Goodness. Stian discontinues and cuts short the seat from further winding and snaking down. I am happy and cheerful that he did do just that, because, to be ethical and decent and upright with you, I was starting to become by fair means cowed and unnerved and petrified. Yeah…I sure indeed was…

Stian sets and cements his eyes on mine, breathing in and out all the hell brisk and sprightly and rapid. Goodness! Is he going to canoodle and neck and kiss me? Or will he fuck and screw and shag-bonk me up straight away without any hold-back or slow-back? Will he indeed?

He hurls and flings himself down so that he can smooch and buss and canoodle and neck and peck me like crazed and frantically loony. I love it! I adulate it so much! Don’t you yourself? With his lips becoming and sweeping and scrubbing and stroking over mine, he presses and forces down himself against me, shoving and ramming and wedging his hand into my sugary, as-of-now wringing wet and soaked and drenched pussy. Yes. It is quaking and shuddering and having a bad time from the chilled and shaky cold and icy sogginess itself, and if his heated and piping hot boiling cum or spermatozoon or reproductive cell will not be spewed or splashed or let flow into it so as to dissolve and melt and unfreeze the sodden and waterlogged ice racking my pussy, then sweet dear Vagina is going to icen up and harden for good. For certain.

I groan and bewail and bemoan as Stian punches and bashes and swats his fingers deep and more deeper into my pussy, magnifying and heightening and enhancing up his speed as he does so until I am all swelling and escalating and snowballing remedilessly with elevating and aggrandizing and building up bliss and enjoyment. I make it to the big O right that particular moment, unclosing and setting off ajar my mouth in sheer fun and relish and delight. Damn him! he made me come all too quickly and unexpectedly and without notice. Screw him for it!

With my mouth still unclosed and ajar and stretched out, Stian shifts and moves his so close to mine that he kisses and snogs me terribly and exceedingly ferocious and uncontrollable and tigerish. I land at another big O as he does that, leaving me with not much any tip-off or pointer or hint as concerns what next it is that I can precisely do. Damn him once more!

By the time and tick he takes off his mouth away from mine, I am all sugar and ice cream and milk and yoghurt and honey. Arghhhh! Sex is way too far sweetened and enjoyable, isn’t it?

We are finished and ended. With the pussy fingering matter and concern that is. And? Stian adjusts and amends the positioning and posture and bearing of his seat so that it tumbles and trips and keels over downwards. Then with that executed, he enjoins and bids and adjures me to undo and untie and unstrap the belt laced and tied up on to his pants so I can take in my hands and furthermore trifle and amuse myself with his knob and John Dong kept in the dark and drawn a veil over inside there.

My, my. I find out and learn and realize and see that he is dressed in the most seductive and arousing and voluptuous style and fashion of underwear. Yes. His things and the tips and heads of his hips and buttocks are looking so very come-hither and slinky and kissable and beddable. If they were foodstuffs and nosh and aliment, I would have by now devoured and gobbled and polished them off. Arghhhh. Stian is looking so voluptuous and titillating and arousing right this instant and moment. Is he in reality and truthfully mine? Mine alone? All of him in his entirety?

First, I lick and sweep and dust my puzzled, fascinated, and tickled-to-fancy tongue over his bulky, inviting, and irresistible-looking thighs. He moans and sighs out raucously as I do that. Damn him for it! Won’t he just enjoy and take pleasure and joy in this noiselessly and in hushed tones. He is a man after all, isn’t he, and not some psychological, emotive, and tear-jerking woman just like me? Even with the rolling and booming and thundering of his rumbustious and boisterous sighs and moans and whinges, I keep on at raking and sweeping and brushing his legs and thighs with my tongue, cheering and tickling him roseate to the very core and crux as I do so.

Then I land and get as far as his jumbo and gargantuan John Dong is. Yes. It is at present moment prickled-up and standing and firm and raised up straight. And it is showing or exhibiting no any manifestations or gesticulations of plummeting and tripping down frail and decrepit and anaemic. No, it is not.

Without seizing or laying hold of it with my hands, I take and eat it up in its entirety and fullness in my merry and ecstatic mouth, bashing and clipping it hard but good-humoredly in the farther borders and peripheries and extremities of my mouth. Yeah. All so sweetened and icky. I love it…I am in love with its sweating, in-perspiration like smell…I hold dear and dote on its redolence and bouquet and stench. Don’t you?

“Yeah, Ragnhild, baby. Keep doing it; press on with it,” this Stian asserts and asseverates to me, looking and seaming all joyous and elated and on cloud nine. And am I stoked and rapt and floating on air just like he is? You can be most certain and positive and dauntless about it!

Why are men’s penises and John Thomases so saccharine and sugary and honeyed? Not that I have tasted and chewed and scoffed avariciously all dicks and phalluses and winkles and joysticks that go vertical and prickled-up and rigid and firm in the entire world. I have not. And I will not ever do such kind of a thing, or will I? Hell-way no indeed.

Stian Elberd has the most sweetest and enjoyable cock organ and vagina and ass pecker in the entire world. Do you differ in opinion and dispute with me? Well, if you were in my shoes and feet, you would obviously and undeniably know what it is that I am talking and shooting the breeze about here. You sure and come hell or high water would.

While I lick and slap and plash and gurgle every inch of Stian’s massive and wonderful erection, I lay down and establish my hands deep into his sexual provoking and flirtatious underwear so that I can brace and hold on to bit and chunk and lot of his arse and butt behind there. Yeah. It is all so sweetened and honeyed and pleasurable and enjoyable to grasp and cling on to. Do you dare take issue with me on this or cross swords with me in other words?

Goodness! This sex and rumpy-pumpy is steadily but assuredly and unfalteringly is killing me. It verily and surely and without a doubt is doing all that indeed. Arghhhh! I love it! I dote on this! I think the world of this—don’t you?

It is funny and weird. But it is veritable and factual on the other hand. Before, I was not like this. What has Stian and matrimony life done to me? What exactly? Back then, I was a bashful and mousy and reticent withdrawn and single and lonesome and for the most part companionless maiden. I definitely and for certain was. But now…now…I am valiant and plucky and ballsy and lion-hearted like when it comes to sexuality stuff and material. I am like a whore and hooker and lady of the night. Stian’s loyal and faithful and staunch call girl and strumpet and fille de joie and woman of ill repute. And him on the other hand? He is my tom and whore and hustler governor and master and overlord and tutor all in all. Whatever sexual appetites and carnalities and lustfulness of his…it is my mission and service and office to see that they are satisfied and contented and gratified. I must unfailingly see on to that. Is that not being harlot and demimondaine enough? Whatever your counterblast to that is—I do not and will not bother about it and give a damn what’s more!

Sex…sex…sex…It is what is filling up and brimming over in my mind right this moment. Sex…sex…sex…and more sex…sex…sex…and an additional incessant sex…sex…sex…sex…sex…sex…

Just as Stian is about to come, he respires and wheezes in deeply and seriously excessive and firce before he goes on to notify and inform me, “I am about to cum, Ragnhild. I am about to let go and let out my sperm. Watch out!”

Goodness. Do I have to swallow and then throw it out? Or must I slurp in into my stomach once I hoover it into my mouth? Maybe I must duck and shirk away from it? What scrupulously and precisely must I do, huh? What literally? I commit myself to gobbling and guzzling it; and it is what I bang on and squarely do.

Gosh. The manner and style and fashion that Stian’s jism and cum erupts and bursts off into my mouth—it is a bit and jot frightening and alarming and startling and terrorizing. Shaken and petrified at first, I gather and amass and hoard it all in my mouth up till I at length and in the fullness of time make up my mind and reach a decision that I have no preference or choice than to hoover and swig it all. Yeah. I have no any choice or selection other than this. Do you yourself?

Male gamete and seed tastes funny but richly hilarious and sharply acetic in case you didn’t know. Yeah. At times I feel like I could eject and sputter it out of my mouth; at other times I still treasure and cherish it in spite of all the disastrous and deleterious things that it is in the mouth. Yuck! And fantastic again!

At long and final last, I am finished and ended with the cum or jissom gulping thing. And what comes next? Pussy bashing or banging in other words. Yeah. From the look and feel of it, Stian appears prepared and all set to venture on accomplishing and bringing off that. Yeah, he sure does. Aren’t you yourself all set and in readiness for it? I bet and gamble and deem that you are.

He has me lie and lounge down in my seat steadily and at my own pace and leisure; and with that carried through and concluded, he sets and rests himself on top of me in his ace and topping clothes, having his trousers and underwear sagged and drooped and slumped way further down his thighs and legs themselves. He slaps and tonks me as being fairly sensuous and bedroom provocative. Don’t you take ion and fathom that as being very much beddable and kissable too? It inevitably and nailed-on is to me.

Yah! I feel at ease and take it easy and relaxed as Stian lazes and lies down on me tenderly and smoothly. Nothing could be more better and preferable than this, aren’t you of the same mind with me? He jerks and tweaks and hitches my dress farther up so that he can feel and stroke and finger and run his hands on my vagina and cunt down there. Yeah! He does it inchmeal and ploddingly and in his own good time. Yeah. I savor and revel in all this and so much more.

Arghhhhh! Sex with Stian? It is godsend damn awesome and schmick and brill and tiptop and super and ace. Steadily and taking his time, he lays and sticks his knob and penis and plonker into my vagina, and once he is inside of me, he looks down at me fixedly and overpoweringly, making me feel so awesome and super and pearler about everything here. Yeah. I am so in love with him. I think the world of him and I idolize him indeed. Don’t you yourself feel the exact same for him?

As he bangs and bashes and batters into me, I shut and close my eyes for a moment, aiming and attempting and seeking as hard and finest as I can to hoover and swig and eat up all the king-size and immense delectation and contentment and bliss and enjoyment that he is bestowing and consigning to me. Yeah. It is all awe-inspiring and breathtaking and gee-whizz indeed. Doubtlessly.

Faster and more faster; he is rapping and smacking and banging and thudding into me all the hell lot more faster and quicker. I gasp and gulp and wheeze markedly and inordinately and to the nth degree as he does so to me. I can’t help or relieve or aid it but liquefy and thaw and evanesce and dissipate into this whole lot and entirety swelling and hump and tumescence of sugar and honey and vanilla. Arghhh! If I am not in paradise or Zion or the next world, then I in good faith and ethically don’t verily and surely know where it is that I right now am in. Where seriously am I? And how I jetted and sailed and winged my way here? How truly and precisely? How?

While Stian jams and butts and prods and jabs into me, I reach for his bottom and fleecy just like a baby’s bottom buns behind, and once I have beat and rapped and knocked and tapped them flippantly but hard enough, I grasp and cling on to them like real bad and no laughing matter. Yes. I want him to fuck and jab and prick and nudge deep into me; I want him to do that and nothing else. Serious.

Just when my breathing and wheeze becomes ponderous and heavy and concentrated and intensive—just like Stian’s himself too—he sets free and unshackles out loads and fills and crams and lades of semen into me. And boy, do I like and enjoy and revel in it so very much? I assuredly and come what may and beyond the shadow of a slight doubt do. After all, yes, his spermatozoon and male gamete in me is but seriously and excessively sugary and honeyed and saccharine indeed. Or is not it? It obviously and needless to say and without doubt is. Buy into it or not. By the time that he pulls and hauls out of me, I am but terribly and ultra contented and assuaged and appeased indeed. Oh yeah…I certainly and absolutely and sure thing am…