To Pause

To Pause
Literary Erotica
by Lord Malinov

She lay in the shade of a blossoming dogwood and I stopped at once when I saw her. I breathed cautiously, reticent, wary of even a gentle slight motion, transfixed by the netted glimmer of beauty still in this crystalline moment, caught by the wonder of a sunlit surprise. I paused wholly, solemnly afraid that a rustling leaf would be enough to stir the butterfly vision off the daisy’s petal, make her flitter away in jagged anxious flight, forever disturbed from the serene moment she clearly enjoyed in the billowing shade, her smile lost in tranquil thought. I had not expected to find anyone as I walked the garden path. I drank a long draught of her loveliness, for she hadn’t seem to notice me and I wondered if I knew her, but I knew I did not for I had never seen such vibrant gold hair, such supple white skin, such a delicate mouth. In truth, I had never seen anyone like her, not in Randolph county, not in this lifetime.

I watched in quiet revelry, and my heart began to throb as fire stole over my chest as she slowly drew her white linen skirt up her white creamy thighs. I thought, “surely she sees me,” but I wasn’t going to do anything at once, not before something seemed required of me, not while standing quiet seemed enough to leave things as they were. Instead, I fought to control in me the nervous excited trembling that took me as I began to imagine and then barely see the just-a-bit-higher-please charms I never expected to witness, even as the hem of her skirt drifted completely away to roll in a bunch at her belly. I held my breath in awe. This woman shone sumptuously, beautiful and young, glowing in innocence like the the first hint of dew on a spring tulip’s blossom. She gently, almost thoughtlessly, pressed the white lace of her panties down over her soft hips and in a pause embraced her cream thighs with a band of thin cloth. I fell to my knees, losing control in the instant. She drew the lace garment past her delicate ankles and tossed the wisp of cloth carelessly into the thick patch of grass which lightly embraced her.

I stared into her pussy, admiring hard the delicate folds of glistening pink and the golden mane of tight curls, envying the fiery nub she frantically twirled in her self-knowing fingers. My mouth watered to watch the dripping froth stirred from the dark of this pretty girl’s sex, madly hungered to touch her cunt spread inviting before me, paradise waiting a mere few feet away. She played with herself in the bask of pure sunshine, taking the light and the heat as her unrestrained lover, and I thought to myself, “surely she sees me,” and she moved at times toward me as though she knew I was there, but I wouldn’t have moved if I could from fear for the vision’s illusions, unbelieving and still holding my heated hot breath.

She swirled herself passionately, intent and uncaring as she focused, it seemed, on some passing lewd image of a wished for lover’s return, dwelling in a pause on some fantastic thought that lit her cunt full on fire, feverish, gleaming with the juice of that imagined hot fuck. She arched her back sharply to meet her lusty pawing fingers’ touch and then lifted her soft bottom high from the ground, pressing her pussy to me and toward me and for me and I thought, “surely she sees me,” but her tits flounced and her voice moaned and then all at once she beckoned me to touch her and I unloosed my pants and she began to scream and quiver and bend and move and I pressed my mouth to the fiery pulsation of pussy and licked the warm nectar from her overflowing well.

And she thought,”strange that I never saw him.”

About David Cain

David Cain, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet - author of Witch, Song of Songs, Journals of Lord Malinov, Erotic Romances and others ...
This entry was posted in books, erotica, fiction, literature, literotica, personal, short stories, writing and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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