At the Park

There is a passion in me, sometimes unstoppable: writing. Sometimes I spend entire nights bent over a notebook writing, living what my pen traces on paper. I am not and I do not feel like W. Smith or S. King, I have never written a novel, and nothing of mine has ever been published, except on websites. The cause could be that I write stories that are too short, or perhaps because my favorite theme is eroticism, extreme eroticism. But these are the stories I like to tell and write.

Unable to support myself with this passion, I have to work, which I hate, mainly because it limits the time I can dedicate to writing.

For this reason, I had to organize myself: I always carry a notebook with me to write down the inspirations to develop as soon as possible and, taking advantage of the beautiful days, I spend my lunch break in the park near the office. Sitting on my usual bench near the kiosk, I discovered not only a quiet and pleasant place, but a real source of inspiration. Many women, unaware, passing within range of my gaze, became unaware muses of my stories - sometimes their way of dressing or walking, their hair or voice, was enough to ignite my imagination.

At a certain point, my attention focused on one woman in particular. Maybe because she almost always chose the bench in front of the one that had become mine, near the old watermelon stand, or maybe because of some of her curious habits that slowly captured my curiosity. Physically, she was certainly not the type to go unnoticed. About five feet tall, she could be said to wear a size 44/46: curly red hair, very expressive green eyes, although often hidden behind a pair of glasses, as well as a luxuriant breast, which I think I noticed among the first things. She almost always wore a suit, one of those that hug her generous hips, highlighting her narrow waist, with a skirt that stopped just above the knee, leaving one to imagine the softness of her thighs. The high-heeled shoes completed that figure of an old-fashioned secretary, that image so stereotypical and yet so exciting, capable of making the imagination travel to forbidden encounters in some deserted office.

At first she would arrive with a book, sit with her legs crossed on the bench and immerse herself in reading, isolating herself from the real world like all great readers. She would remain there quietly for about an hour, changing the position of her legs every now and then. I would wait for that moment with ill-concealed trepidation, slowing the pace of my writing, hoping to deepen my knowledge of her legs, but the gesture was carefully studied and chaste. Suddenly, she would fold a corner of the page and stand up. All I could do was follow her with my gaze as she walked away with her elegant gait, her hips swaying with every step, her round and firm bottom that seemed to dance under her tight skirt, before going to the office myself with my mind full of those images. The days passed and I took advantage of it to study her from time to time. The warm season was approaching and, little by little, the lady was wearing increasingly light clothes that allowed more glimpses of the shape of her body.

I noticed that she had changed one of her habits: every now and then she replaced the book with some sheets of paper, typical A4 office format, which she read with ever-increasing restlessness. One day when my inspiration was acting up, I decided to pay a little more attention to this woman who was increasingly fascinating me, certain that she would be an excellent subject for a story. First, I noticed that she was reading the mysterious sheets of paper. She crossed her legs much more frequently, without the usual attention, allowing my gaze to access places that were usually forbidden to me. I noticed that she reread them several times. At a certain point she got up and disappeared, to return after several minutes with a strange look, her eyes shiny and satisfied. This began to intrigue me a lot, so the next time I saw her take out the sheets, I just pretended to write and studied her behavior more. When she got up I followed her, discovering that she was hiding behind the old kiosk, sheltered by a jungle of bushes, invisible to the sight of anyone in the park. What he was doing back there and why he was going there were the two curiosities that guided my next moves.

The easiest thing to find out was what she was reading. When she came out of her hiding place, I followed her, discovering that she was throwing the papers she had read into a wastebasket. Giving her time to walk away, I retrieved them, quickly putting them in my folder. I discovered that she was reading an erotic story: it told of the encounter between a salesman with a passion for writing erotic stories and a woman who was worried about not being passionate enough in bed. Hidden in a grove, the two had repeated sexual intercourse, described in a rather detailed manner. I had discovered what was so agitating my lady, but I still had one last mystery to uncover: what was she doing hidden behind the kiosk? The next day I went on a reconnaissance, discovering behind the kiosk a small cabin that served as a warehouse. The door was open and so battered that there was a lot of space between the boards that composed it. From inside there, hidden from everyone's eyes, I could have a complete view of the back of the kiosk. I anxiously awaited the day my provocative lady would arrive with a new story, but it seemed like she did it on purpose: she always arrived with her book.

Finally, one Friday, after sitting on her bench, she took the fateful papers out of her bag. With an indifferent expression, I stood up and, going around the kiosk, hid in my refuge. After fifteen interminable minutes she arrived, checked that she could not be seen and, with a slow and sensual gesture, lifted her skirt to her waist, revealing her soft thighs wrapped in dark hold-ups and a tiny lace slip. She sat on the old abandoned stool, her legs slightly apart, and began to massage her sex through the lace with increasingly intense circular movements. When she pulled the fabric aside to touch herself directly, I could see the humidity that was already wetting her fingers. With the other hand she took a rubber phallus from her bag and placed it on the stool, arranging it in an upright position before slowly lowering herself onto it.

I was mesmerized by that spectacle: eyes wide open, mouth wide open, breathing hard, heart pounding in my chest and, above all, an erection throbbing with the desire to spurt pleasure. My excitement increased further when, with trembling fingers, she began to unbutton her blouse one button after another. She lowered the cups of her bra freeing her lush breasts, her already turgid nipples that she brought to her mouth arching her back, licking and biting them while she continued to ride the dildo with an increasingly frenetic rhythm. Without even realizing it, I had pulled out my cock and started to massage it with the same rhythm as her movements. I saw her arch her back, her eyes rolling back as an intense orgasm ran through her body making her tremble. She bit her lip to keep from screaming, her body shaking with spasms of pleasure, while at the same time I was coming too, dreaming of filling her face with my sperm. She lifted the dildo still shiny with her juices and brought it to her lips, licking and sucking it with her eyes closed before putting it back in her purse. She got up from the stool and, turning her back to me, completely lifted her skirt to adjust her stockings and panties, offering me the view of her generous and perfectly shaped ass that almost seemed to invite me to touch it. Finally, she composed herself and returned to her bench. I had never had to masturbate with the same need. That woman had upset my senses just by looking at her.

I stayed in the cage with my heart pounding in my chest and my cock refusing to go limp in my hand, giving myself time to recover, hoping she wouldn't notice I was spying on her. I reached the office still dazed, doing my homework as if in a trance, my mind in another dimension, the images of her masturbating giving me no respite. Suddenly, a flash of inspiration: I would write a story for her. It would be my personal tribute and, at the same time, a great challenge. I was curious, excited at the idea of ​​finding out if one of my stories would be able to provoke in her the same reactions I had just seen. I had two days to make Dago, the character in my stories, give his best. On Sunday evening, as I put the finishing touches to the story, I felt conflicted: satisfied with the result but terrified at the idea of ​​not passing the test.

I spent a hellish morning with my eyes constantly on the clock and my head on the story, thinking about possible last-minute improvements. I printed and put the story in an envelope on which I wrote in block letters with a marker: "A STORY FOR YOU".

I'll stay on my bench until she starts reading, then I'll sneak into my shelter to wait for her.

She is late, or so it seems to me, but she arrives. She is wearing a cream-colored spring suit that enhances her complexion. The slightly tight jacket emphasizes her generous breasts, while the skirt, with a slight flare that allows her to move with elegance, stops just above the knee, highlighting her generous curves. She is about to sit on the bench. She sees the envelope. She stalls. She picks it up. She studies it. She comes closer to me. "Did you see who left this envelope?" I look at her. She is beautiful. "Which envelope?" I reply, pretending to be dumbfounded. "On that bench... I found this envelope... I don't know..." "I'm sorry, I didn't see anything... I couldn't tell you..." She smiles at me. "Thanks anyway..." Her face lights up, she goes back to the bench. She sits down. She turns the envelope over in her hands. She is undecided. She opens it. She unfolds the papers. She begins to read them. She stops. She looks around, almost as if she were looking for who left the envelope. If she knew. She starts reading again. I see the agitation growing in her, her breathing getting faster, her cheeks coloring slightly. My cock throbs in my pants seeing her so excited by my story. Trying to maintain an indifferent attitude, I reach my station. I lock myself inside and wait. My heart is beating. I don't know if it's the agitation or the excitement that's causing my tachycardia.

She finally arrives. She lifts her skirt as if she knows where I am and wants to give me a show. She lifts her skirt with hands shaking with excitement, revealing her soft, naked thighs and revealing a very small black lace slip that hides practically nothing. She closes her eyes, spreads her legs wider and begins to caress herself through the very thin material, moaning softly. She doesn't resist for long: she pulls the lace aside with two fingers and begins to massage her clit with increasingly faster circular movements. Her pussy is already so wet that her fingers slide in and out easily while, with the other hand, she undoes her blouse. Her moans become more intense as she frees her breasts from the matching lace bra and begins to pinch her already turgid nipples.

The sight of her pleasure drives me crazy, especially knowing that it is my story that is causing it. I force myself to slow down the movements of my hand on my hard cock, I don't want to come too soon. I watch as she takes her dildo out of her purse and, placing it on an old crate right in front of the door of the booth, positions herself on top of it. The way she bites her lip as she pushes it into her ass almost makes me lose control. My mind runs to my story, to the scene that she is faithfully recreating before my eyes, and I lose control of my hand again as I feel a new kind of excitement building.

The door lock gives way suddenly. I find myself catapulted forward, staggering with my pants around my ankles and my hard cock in my hand. She stares at me with eyes wide with surprise and shame, the dildo still lodged in her ass, her breasts obscenely on display, her pussy dripping and her cheeks flushed. Our eyes meet, full of embarrassment and excitement. For a moment time seems to stand still. Her gaze slides downward, staring at my erection and, to my surprise, instead of screaming or running away, she reaches out a shaking hand towards me. Her fingers caress my shaft, sending intense shivers down my spine, making my flesh vibrate like a divining rod. I move closer in the hope that something will happen and she leans forward, the wet heat of her lips enveloping my glans confirming that this is not a dream. A moan escapes my lips as her tongue begins to explore, her lips sucking my cock into her mouth with increasing intensity.

"It's your story, isn't it?" he whispers, pausing briefly and looking down at me with eyes that sparkle with mischief. I can't respond, lost in the colorful sensations his mouth manages to make me feel.

"It's your story, right?" he asks again, a moment before his hands grab my butt cheeks, pushing me deeper into his throat. The pleasure is so intense that I have to force myself not to come right away.

"It's your story, right?" she asks again. She understands my state, she plays to keep me there, on the edge, ready to cum without being able to, she does it by caressing, licking, kissing, sucking, every part of my sex, there is not a millimeter that is not covered in her saliva. In that moment I realize that, if I do not answer that question, she will continue not to grant me that pleasure, or she could even go away leaving me in that state. "Yes, I wrote it..." I struggle to recognize my voice that at this moment is almost pleading.

Only then does she accelerate, clinging to my buttocks to push me deeper into her throat. I want to scream, but I can't, we're in a park. I grab her head and feel her tighten her lips around my hard flesh. It only takes a few seconds, a few more thrusts to make me grunt like an animal while I cum abundantly in her mouth. She doesn't let go. She drinks it all and continues to pump, and to look at me with those eyes that beg for pleasure. It's all so beautiful and exciting that my cock is still hard as if I hadn't come.

She cleans it all up carefully, then stands up, looks at me with a mischievous defiance while wiping some of the sperm from her lips, kisses me and whispers: "Do to me what you wrote in the story." Then she turns, leans against the box and, lifting her skirt completely, offers me the view of her perfect ass.

I kneel behind her, unable to resist the temptation. My hands grab those fantastic buttocks, open them, exposing the juicy fruit that is her pussy. I start licking her, savoring her flavor, sticking my tongue deep inside, then going up towards her anus, already dilated by the dildo, eliciting more intense moans from her. I slide two fingers into her pussy while I continue to lick her, feeling her contract with pleasure.

"Please," she whispers, her voice breaking with excitement, "fuck me like in the story."

I don't need to be told twice, I get up, positioning myself behind her, one hand grabs her skirt, while with the other I firmly point my glans against her anus. My mind goes back to the story, to what I told Dago does and, without thinking, I push decisively, also with the desire to satisfy her request. The stifled moan that escapes her lips is clearly a mix of pain and pleasure. I stop for just a second, to understand what's happening, but she's the one moving, looking for me. Then I feel Dago's blood flowing through my veins again. I slap her ass and push, hard, decisively, penetrating her completely. She moans, but the story runs through my head, I stretch out on top of her and grab her big breasts and squeeze them forcefully while I don't stop pistoning her ass. There is a moment that I feel like I can dissociate myself, like when I write, and see from a point outside the scene, Dago wildly fucking this woman in the ass in that corner of the park.

A strange sound comes out of her mouth. It seems to come from her deepest part. I begin to understand: "Yes... yes... yes... I enjoy... oh God I enjoy... don't stop..." I couldn't stop even if I wanted to, in fact I try to increase my thrusts. Her words have just had the effect of sending me into orbit and, as my seed fills her insides, her body shakes in an overwhelming orgasm. Squirts of her intense pleasure soak my shirt and pants.

My head is spinning, and she also seems exhausted. It takes a few moments before she manages, with regret, to slip out of that heavenly ass. She also slowly moves, we begin to compose ourselves while an aura of embarrassment also returns. Unexpectedly, she comes closer and kisses me passionately. For the first time I notice how soft her lips are. She pulls away from me with a mischievous smile, bends down and takes my still wet cock in her mouth, licking and cleaning it with meticulous care.

The bells of the nearby church ring, breaking the spell. She quickly straightens her clothes, but before disappearing into the bushes she turns to me with a mischievous smile: "Next time..." she whispers, caressing my cheek, "... I want to read what happens next." She leaves me there, dazed and with my pants still around my ankles, my mind already racing to imagine new stories for her. I quickly get dressed, aware that I am terribly late for work, but with the certainty that this is only the beginning of a series of forbidden encounters in the park.