She is sleeping quietly in her crib. I am propped-up in bed reading. I listen to her breathe. I check the clock. I begin to wonder how late you will be.
You are hunting tonight. We stay safe in our den, relaxing or sleeping or taking time for mundane chores. In our bed I listen to every sound until I hear the door.
The door closes and I can hear what I have longed to hear. My warrior walks the length of the wooden hall. Her heels ring out like hobnails once might have done. Louder and closer she comes.
She enters, radiant, beautiful, and commanding. Her heels come off. Her dress comes off. She scoops our daughter from her crib and carries her to bed. She feeds. Her mother has already fed.
Was her prey young or old? Did he find satisfaction or frustration? Her mood is not changed by the feelings of the prey. She lured him towards her. Maybe she smiled. Maybe she frowned. Maybe she spoke too loud. Maybe she spoke too soft. He chased, unsure, too sure, but he chased. Thinking he was hunting, he was hunted. Thinking he was making his move, he was conquered.
The baby has fed. You hand her to me and I carry her, sleeping and satisfied, to her crib. I return to your bed. You are satisfied but alert. A motion of your hand and I stop. Your breasts are bare and swollen with milk. I kneel, naked and hungry before you. Your hand is moving and so am I.
I approach. I tremble. I quake. I throb. I salivate.
You hold your right breast in your two hands.
You speak: drink from me!
I fall upon my task with ardor and greed. With my mouth, I suck. I lick. I knead. I lap. I lavish. My tongue is fast and slow, gentle and firm. I take short and long passes across your nipples. They are tender. They reward me. As your milk flows into my mouth, your hand wrap around my cock. I am in ecstasy without fulfillment. I want more and more. Tender swollen breasts and warm sweet milk on my lips compete with the firm gentle fast slow scratching soothing actions of your hand on my cock.
I am chasing and chased.
I feed upon you.
You smile, victorious, another prize taken by the huntress.
just a lil kinky story from a fanboy
IT IS THE SOLDIER
by Charles M. Province
It is the Soldier, not the minister
Who has given us freedom of religion.
It is the Soldier, not the reporter
Who has given us freedom of the press.
It is the Soldier, not the poet
Who has given us freedom of speech.
It is the Soldier, not the campus organizer
Who has given us freedom to protest.
It is the Soldier, not the lawyer
Who has given us the right to a fair trial.
It is the Soldier, not the politician
Who has given us the right to vote.
It is the Soldier who salutes the flag,
Who serves beneath the flag,
And whose coffin is draped by the flag,
Who allows the protester to burn the flag.
The day came when she discovered sex, sensuality, and literature; she said, ‘I submit! Let my life be henceforth ruled by poetry. Let me reign as the queen of my dreams until I become nothing less than the heroine of God.