Mind Candy

She held her fingers up to my face again, twiddling them briefly. "By the way, can you tell which one has been in my asshole and which one in my cunt?"

She had my dick resting against her ruby red lips. "No?" She mocked. "Well how about which one has been inside Sara's cunt?"

Ah yeah yeah. Now I was getting the picture. CeBit in Hannover earlier this year. Sara had mentioned something about this synthetic memory technology. But she'd said augmented reality not synthetic memory.

This was augmented reality and synthetic memory.

Ah hell. Forget all of that now...

Forget all of that. That's what my brain was telling me right now. My dick was getting really stiff. And the woman was exhibiting that back-straightening posture that mimicked animal lordosis. There's nothing like a woman allowing you to go with other women, or even - having them both at the same time -- nothing like that to get your cock extremely rigid and in need of an imminent releasing orgasm. And what was with that goddamn music too. It was making me hard all by itself. Those driving, driving sticks, with their hard, tight, whacking rimshots, and the dirty bassline, and the supremely gifted digital reverbed lead picking...

"Watch me suck your cock dry you dirty sonofabitch. You want two pussies do you. I'll have you over with my strapon up your ass in front of Sara and then what'll you do? I'll turn you into the second pussy, you bitch."

Talking and acting that tough she was sweating pure adrenalin now and I could definitely smell her warm armpits under powerfully-biceped upper arms. I could smell her sweat very obviously. But unlike the sound enveloping everything all around quite democratically, the smell was certainly an entirely personal thing. Privately, alone with this heavy-duty blonde goddess with the icy deep blue eyes, and with the intimate sexual gift of her warm personal odour densely inside my mouth and nose and knifing its vicious way straight into my brain, there was a covenant of my submission to her going on in secret -- unstated; never to be stated. But even submission wasn't going to stop me taking the tips of her nipples hesitantly between my thumbs and forefingers and watching for her eyes to make a reaction whether 'yes' or 'no.' She just seemed to lean forward in towards me, confidently jutting her breasts out more - and I pinched her nipples hard and quickly and then let go and she flinched and jerked involuntarily up and down on her haunches. I waited a few seconds and did it again and the whole involuntary thing happened all over again. Surely there was a dribble coming from her cunt...

"Anything," I could only just barely breathe the words out because of the conscious knowledge of what they meant.

But now I myself was slipping down, down, deep into something, and being swirled away in the loud music as well. But you see then again, one has to say, the whole entire sense communication of dominant blonde cunt is an actual thing, of its own. It's very like a drug. And dominant blonde is quite different from submissive blonde. In this instance you have to take it in context as well: the leather inside my Maserati has, normally speaking, a very male kind of dominance: the smell of old, vintage leather. This woman was wearing to begin with, a very feminine designer perfume: a mature (female) sophisticate's expensive couture fragrance on her bare skin -- berries maybe, velvety rich oriental rose, also something five-star Parisian hotel austere; that kind of thing. And brand new black silk panties have this fairly neutral clean-washed silken scent. The whole lot of it was all expensive, rich, above reproach. But then the added juxtaposition... Sexed-up blonde cunt is utterly reproachable; it has this warm wet-slick, instant fuck-me now, open, accessible, get-down-on-it signal. And then of course in this specific instance there were also the thick thighs under the tight bottom-hugging fabric, and the tinsel-ly high-pitched female voice that this woman - and many of these kinds of women typically have - honey-dripped against a very deliberate brocade of superficial gentleness. The biting dry sea salt note of their brimstone cunts gives it all away. There's utterly deliberate transgression and wickedness contained behind the expensive or provocative clothing. In the midst of the luxurious, the decadent, the old money and the vintage leather atmosphere of my own very highly privileged lifestyle, I was here nothing but a starved hungry child before her. Lost. Alone. Helpless. Drowning, maybe.

She made me go under her and I could see her wet gaping open pussy now - glinting light strands of pussy hair, pink nubbiness of clit under flaring hood... The Maserati was in the immediate background. In the distant background, blackness of cold night, the jewels of city lights, and the stars in the sky. Wealth, lifestyle, purist luxury all around, and yet the absolute stripped naked ego-degradation of completely abased personal poverty before a dominant blonde cunt. Ejaculation comes, the demanding pressure of future performance abides. When all the lights at last go out, and the city finally sleeps, deep in the darkest hours, her blonde femaleness yet lingers on in the room, cloying, powered-up, enveloping everything, wholly present. Dominant means - the deliberate will to transgress. To step across every mark. At least potentially...

The music was messy and all over the place. Loud and dirty. Also perfect. The decadence of our own minds became the Ali Baba treasure trove of rich sex. Somehow I knew this girl without ever having known her previously. Correction, I knew Sara, who was very very bi-sexual, and very very clever, and thusly, I guess, was how it really all came to be afterall: 'Iftah Ya Simsim.' The magic words... Are Sara's not mine in this case.

But god, there was something about that music though, still... I think I'm going to crank it up even louder, and -- ungh, must be time for another PIV fuck of this amazing tall blonde woman's wet cunt.

The mobile toned and an SMS lit up on the screen. 'Good enough, Johnny?'

I should have realised right back there outside the chemist's; I should have known this girl was part of 'Sara world'; the 'Sara world' lifestyle of the extraordinarly wealthy and the highly-groomed, and the otherwise professionally idle, and the skin-pampered. Fuck me, she'd even just plain straight emailed me a Craigslist sort of fake spam ad that opened in my private mailbox and I never cottoned to it. Selfish dumb fucking permissive sex slut that I am!

I always admire people who go out running and who are not what you would call, fit, necessarily. These people are the real heroes. It's harder for them than for someone who is already very used to it and in good shape. For these normal people I can quite recommend running at night. Sure you have to prepare and some people think it's unsafe to run at night-time. But it's unsafe in the day-time too sometimes. And what's the point of having people staring at you? At night, in the dark, in the cool air, before you take off, standing on the edge of your front doorsteps, there's only you and the constellations of stars in the sky above. In the day there are sometimes too many people out. And nowadays there are things going on out there in the midst of the masses that you cannot understand. Things in the hands of the privileged... The rare few... The technologically adept - indeed extremely advanced really; and some governments too... And some of these 'things' are malicious things. Some things that you really do not want to know about... They are all completely real nowadays where once they were just science fiction. And then when it becomes like this only the Diffie-Hellman-Merkle expert knows what is really going on. At least though at night any other creatures besides the ordinary normal citizen with normal human boundaries are distinct and you can probably more easily detect friend from foe, benign from enemy -- and those not of the same mundane world or circles as the ordinary folk, they stand out. Even black cats' eyes shine in the dark.