Your Wide Ass 2

You can read this story from the beginning by clicking here.

So there you are, spread out on this bed in front of me, cushioning yourself on the Bordeaux coloured quilt, just nicely positioned for me to caress your wide ass. I’m sorry if I am saying that too often, but I rather like the sound of it. Rolling off the tongue the way it does. Your wide ass. If I look around the room, I can see a photograph on the wall to our left. It is a photograph of a woman. She is sitting on a rock by a stream looking out across water. I can only see half of the woman’s face in the photograph, but she looks strangely familiar. I can see the same half of your face in front of me. Oh I see, this is your bedroom I have invaded, and not someone else’s that we are borrowing for our afternoon of therapy. I like your hair tied back the way it is in the photograph. You know I like things like hair tied up neatly. Let me gather up your hair into a bunch like that. I don’t want it to stay hanging loosely across your naked shoulders, I want it all in my hand. That’s it, one hand on your ass, and one hand grasped round your ponytail of hair. Now tell me your story.

Enough.

Your ass still feels good. Judging by the delicate moves I can feel you making under my hand I think you are enjoying this. I really don’t want to stop. Your hair in my right hand, and my left hand sliding from one side and then to the other, and each time I cross that little gap I feel a little excitement. Like a pendulum my hand gathers speed then slows as it nears the limit of its path. That curve is attracting me there each time. Skin contact. I can’t believe you are letting me do this.

Enough.

 

 

 

Reality (Pt I)

I seem to better at starting stories than finishing them but nevertheless I have started another, it goes by the name of Reality and here is the first 1000 words

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to step out of your current reality and straight into another? Well of course you have, we think about these things all the time. We imagine alternate realities, alternate situations, alternate outcomes every day. In fact I got to thinking the way to change your reality must really be quite simple from one moment to the next, all you need to know is the how. I decided I must have to somehow find the portal from one reality to another. At first I wasn’t sure whether this portal was something to be found in the depths of my mind or a physical gateway to be discovered. I soon came to be of the view that it must be a combination of both. On the one hand you need to open your mind to the level where a change in reality is both acceptable and desirable, and on the other hand you need to find that physical trigger somewhere to facilitate the change.

So how do you open your mind to such a thing? Can a closed mind be opened up? I wasn’t so sure about this. I knew with a combination of reasonable certainty and belief my own mind was open enough to change my reality, but I couldn’t say if others are. Though if mine is, then for sure there are other people likewise minded. So good, an open mind, you have either got it or you haven’t. Fair enough. Time to find a trigger. Test the belief.

I’d like to think it was a case of 5-4-3-2-1 snap fingers let’s go, find yourself someplace else. Of course I tried this, but nothing happened. From what I could tell I was always in the same reality. But then how would I know it had changed? Would my surroundings change? Well I guess they would, so based on the fact that I was still sitting in the same spot staring into the space, with the same unfulfilled belief, then nothing had happened.

I took to looking around the house, looking for that portal. The usual stuff, backs of cupboards, hidden places below the stairs, under a rug, but nothing seemed to be right. You don’t expect to find another reality hiding behind a pile of folded towels in your closet, and neither did I.

This search went on for a couple of days, but there was just nowhere that seemed right. And it didn’t matter how open my mind felt to me, without the precise trigger it just wasn’t going to happen. I wondered for a while if music could be an associated trigger factor. You know the way you listen to something and you find yourself seamlessly moving in another time frame within the music. You become it for a few phrases. Rising and falling with the notes, feeling the time signature as a part of you. Perhaps, this was all the alternate reality I was ever going to find. Perhaps it was the limit of the opening of my mind. It was possible but I prefered to think that this kind of feeling was a pre-cursor and an indicator of what I would achieve if I could locate the precise trigger portal.

It’s when you aren’t looking for something that often you find just what you have been frantically searching for. And this was the case with me. I was pottering around undertaking my usual bunch of mundane household chores. I did have some particularly unusual and inspiring music playing, but other than that, nothing on that particular morning was out of the ordinary. I had in fact just prepared myself a coffee. I prepared a small cup of the sticky, dark liquid and lay a blanket of thick, foamy, whisked milk on the top and sprinkled it with chocolate powder. Something felt quite different already, although at this point I hadn’t changed a thing about the reality.

I cupped the warm mug in my hands as the music filled my head and the sun flooded through the back door and through windows. The sun seemed blinding for a moment. I don’t particularly remember the next moments as something that I consciously did. It was as if I was following a path somewhere. I opened the back door and stepped out onto the terrace. It was strange because the music followed me, even though normally stepping outside would mean it rapidly falling out of earshot. I looked out across the garden.

I hadn’t lived in this particular house for too long, perhaps 6 or 7 months, I had concentrated my efforts on the modelling the interior to my liking, and as such the garden remained more or less as it had when I had first moved in. It was a largely featureless garden. There was a very large pine tree in one corner, stone walls to two of the sides, which for the most part were covered by the bushy evergreen plants which had been planted in front of them. There was however, one thing that stood out. The previous owners had laid out from the edge of the lawn a path made up of white and grey stones. The path wound it’s way across a deep border of bamboo and other more exotic looking plants towards the stone wall, where it finished abruptly. It was a path to nowhere.

I suddenly felt drawn to it, and with the music still swirling in my ears and the coffee cup still firmly grasped in my hands and stepped down from the terrace, and began to walk across the lawn towards the border where the path started.