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Hunting the Peruvian Cottontail (33M/23F) | 2016
Forgive me, I can't help but be long-winded. For those reading with one hand, the fun starts at the bold phrase We drank wine.
South America. I found her through a travel website. I've debauched a few babes this way, but she had that look: so thin, prissy, probably ignores most of the guys who write her, especially the sleazy middle-aged ones. It was a few weeks before I heard anything - I hadn't even thought about her, as I like to mass mail introductions, knowing most won't respond. When she wrote, she didn't bother with blather; she wanted to meet up. She said, “We can go to a free movie at the cultural center and then walk around in the park,” a more titillating scenario than I expect in these situations. I had a friend sleeping on my floor for a few days, and she lived with her parents.
Sunday night. I took a bus to the flowery part of town where hot girls like to strut. She was late, of course. With the roar of traffic and a bad cell signal, I could hardly understand her Spanish. I found her on a bridge arching over a train station. She came out of the darkness in a black dress. A moment walking together and she grabbed my arm as she stumbled in her high heels. We got to the theater. There was no movie that night.
We went to a restaurant atop a cliff ripped out of bedrock by the vicious Pacific. It was the day before an election, so it was illegal to sell booze. We drank coffee and split a salmon sandwich. Her name was Constanza.
We walked through the parks elevated over the coast. Sat on a bench. Late winter in Lima's weird microclimate, it was chilly. We talked about the standard topics, but with her it felt peculiarly sincere, not just autopilot: when she asked questions, I thought about my replies. When she was a child her family had forty ducks in their yard, until grandma killed them all. I wanted to grab her, rip her clothes off and bend her over the bench.
There was no one around. Her giant purse was between us. I put it in my lap, for safety, slid closer. I told her about the bird I'd had, how we raised it after it fell from its nest and my dad ran across the dirt road behind our house to rescue it from a yard full of snarling Dobermans. It was a grackle, sleek black. I named him Charlie, and he would follow me to school, as I yelled into the treetops, Charlie, Charlie! Until one day when a flock of grackles congregated on power lines over our house and we looked at Charlie like it was one of those 80's Disney movies and we said, “Go Charlie, go with your family!” and he left.
She said she had lower back pain, and I was on her like a mongoose grabbing a cobra by the throat. Massaging her thin waist, along her spine, her shoulders, her neck, babbling all the while, trying to sound calm. Her black hair falling through my fingers, her smell dizzying me with lust. It was getting cold, and though her leggings and long sleeves left little skin revealed, her clothes were thin. I took my jacket off and draped it over her, warmed by adrenaline myself. I picked her up, sat her on my lap. She'd mentioned my height – I'm 6-2 – but it was only then that I realized how tiny she was. Four feet, eleven and half inches, 92 pounds. I wanted to tear into her like a roasted chicken. I nuzzled her ear, kissed her neck, put a gloved hand against her cheek and brought her lips to mine.
She kissed sweetly, softly, with intention and desire. She put her head on my chest, curling up on me like a kitten, and said, “I'd like to sleep here all night.” Normally, I'd have said, “Taxi!” But with my friend on my bedroom floor, and thinking this girl might be special, and how I normally ruin everything, I took another approach.
Also, she needed to catch a flight at 7 a.m. She was going back to the jungle to finish working on a project. The company had flown her back here for the election. She lived in an Amazonian village with no cell signal, no internet. And I know well how these things can change, so even with all the plans she was making for us upon her return, places to go around the city, down the coast, I knew it could all turn to dust before I ever got my end in.
I thought about her incessantly for the next two weeks, yet I was strangely serene. I'd been on a bit of a rampage, but I didn't bother with most of the girls I'd recently met: not out of loyalty to Constanza (I'm dumb, but not that dumb), rather it seemed too much of a compromise. I only continued to see one girl, a delightful creature I'd met on the other side of the Andes earlier in the year, a taut sliver of sex and affection, but even when I was coming in her I thought of Constanza.
She wrote me the day she got back. She called me Charlie. At first I thought it was a general term, like “Sorry Charlie,” or even that she'd forgotten my name. But, of course, she was alluding to the bird.
She was going out the next night with two amigas from work. I met them at a trendy lounge. She was wearing a tiny red dress, backless, tits popping out, slender legs dangling free. Each of them had a tall, colorful cocktail in front of them. I sat close to her on the bench seat that wrapped around the table, drank a beer. We went to a club, then another and another, her friends not liking each place, but me, I just wanted to get that young thing in my arms.
Finally, we ordered a couple pitchers at one disco and sat down. After dancing with her, Constanza asked me to dance with her friends. It was fun, maybe I could make her jealous, but the wait to touch her again was grueling. When we sat, I'd rest my hand on her thigh, just above the knee, or place it on her bare back. She pulled away at times, wouldn't kiss me. I didn't know if it was the presence of her friends or she was changing her mind.
We got a taxi, me in front, dames in back. The three girls were all going to stay at one of their houses, which happened to be close to mine. The friends got out and walked inside. Constanza came to my side of the cab. I clung to her through the window, bit her arms, tugged at her hair, but she only giggled, resisted. She went inside. I rode for a few blocks, but stopped the taxi, and began to walk the rest of the way. The sun was rising, the tip of the sky god's prick tearing through the pink dawn. I got home, jerked off and went to sleep.
Two days later she came to my apartment for lunch. She was wearing little white jean shorts not small enough to cling to her tiny legs, a white denim jacket. She said she was starving, so I didn't tackle her right away. I stuffed chopped garlic, thyme, panceta, onion and Peruvian Parmesan into the slit open bellies of two trout nearly as red as salmon, with long, fat orange chile peppers filled with goat cheese, sausage and spinach. As I cooked, she would hug me from behind, kiss me when I turned toward her. Rarely have I been so happy.
We drank wine and ate, mixing the fish and peppers in flour tortillas. We walked to my room. She sat in the chair. I picked her up, so light and nubile, placed her on the bed. I went to take a piss. When I came back she was on the chair again, high heels off. I carried her back to the bed, this time sliding in beside her. My fingers in her black hair, kissing, running my hands at last over her supple little ass. She reached down and unbuttoned her shorts, shimmied out of them. I sat up, took off my shirt, pants and underwear, pulled her up, took off her jacket, shirt, bra.
She'd been wearing a push up bra every time I'd seen her; her tits weren't the almost cartoonish size they'd appeared, but they were perfect for me, perky, soft, with Hershey's Kiss nipples. I laid her down, began to rub her pussy through her lacy blue panties, slid them off, revealing split apricot labia and a tiny patch of hair trimmed just for the occasion.
I caressed her wet folds with two fingers as she gently stroked my prick and urgently kissed me. I dropped to her neck, nipples, stomach, hips, ready to splatter that ripe peach over my face, but she whispered no and gave me the look that says take me and I lunged over her, thinking she was ready to forgo the dreaded condom, but before I could enter she stopped me. I had a box in the nightstand. I tore one open with my teeth, cursed the strange contraption and glanced at her to see her staring at my engorged cock with a look of curiosity and desire in her huge black eyes.
I sheathed my prick and mounted her, right up to the hilt. She gasped, grabbed my torso. I stayed in deep, grinding my pelvis into her clit, now and then pulling out slowly and slamming back in. I could have told her I loved her right then. She wanted it harder and harder. I flipped her to her knees, ramming into her, biting her neck from behind, reaching around.
On top, she rode with purpose, her lower lip engulfed with blood and extended with heavy breath. I spit on my fingers and rubbed her slit, and she did the same, both of us looking down to watch the in-out, in-out. She was just the right size that I could take her entire ass in my hands and tickle the opening of her asshole with the tip of my middle finger. When she came, she clung to me as though I'd disappear if she let go.
She wanted me to come to, but I shook my head no, impossible with this thing strangling me. I lifted her off, laid her down beside me, and pulled off that suffocating noose of rubber. She stroked me for a while, but wasn't adept, and as much as I wanted release, I felt it was indecent to come without first feeling her vaginal walls cling to me with their melting sap washing over my cock.
I begged her to let me in raw, swore I'd pull out. I tried to sneak in from the back while spooning, traced the outside of her pussy lips until they were again slick and inviting, dragged her on top of me. But she was unyielding.
If not my prick, at least my mouth! I've never wanted so badly to get my tongue up a girl's slit, her smooth, frail body tasting of raspberries and sea breeze. I was on the floor, kneeling beside the bed. I'd come back from the bathroom and popped my head under the covers. I was in a frenzy, I had to get a taste. She was laughing, kicking, as I pawed at her tender thighs. And then she relaxed.
I don't usually find cunnilingus to be as thrilling as I imagine it to be, but damn, that twat was lovely. Such a fresh, clean quim, and her writhing, girlish body felt so good as I held her waist, pulling her toward me, and her tiny feet sitting on my shoulders. I wanted to drink every drop. I slid my tongue up and down her slit, saturated it with my saliva. I slid right down to her pert pothole and enjoyed the sensation of the tip of my tongue darting into her artichoke for a few seconds before she bolted upright. She had a confused, almost scared look on her face, so I pushed her back down and returned to her cunt, but resisted the hunger for her ass.
She came again, looking down at me with madness in her eyes as I held her clit between my lips. I leapt on top of her. Trying once more to slip inside unrestrained, thinking that now would be my best chance. But she denied me still. I think it was at this point that I actually put on a second condom and tried to pound her into total submission. She went to the bathroom, putting on one of my t-shirts before entering the hall. It fit her like an oversized dress, made her look so fragile. And what pleasure to have her back beside me, my hands sliding up my own shirt into her warmth.
Hours passed. I was verging into delirium. She crawled on top of me, but wouldn't let me inside. The way I remember it, and many times have I thought of that moment, I simply tossed her into the air, and when she came down she was impaled on my prick. She never mentioned condoms again.
I have a lot of stories about her, as well as the other girls mentioned in this post, and many others. Let me know if you enjoyed this, and I'll start writing them up.
Also, if you like my style, check out my blog. I'm not an erotica writer, but I never go too long without writing about sex. I'm going to release some books sooner or later...but right now it's just a blog.
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