Words by Tales of Lara
Photography by Dustin Hollywood
I was like a ripe peach; one firm touch away from bursting, leaking all my juice over his naked body.
“Contain me. Punish me.” He threw me on the bed. I put his hands on my throat, daring him
to strangle me. He was an eager student.
I was too much for him and I rejoiced in his pain. I was vicious, riding him like he deserved it.
He exploded inside me. An avalanche rushing through my pussy. Drown me.
Then he collapsed on my breasts. He was a little boy now, soft skin, holy glow. His weight
crushing me. All bliss. Drop, drop, drop. He flew out of me like melting ice cream.
His hand reached for me but I was too far away. A world away. Connected through screens,
his words like electric jolts in my heart.
I dreamt up ways to blow him in public. Under a restaurant table, in a cab, on a rollercoaster.
What furniture I could hold on to when he would take me from behind.
Like a love affair with myself, my own ravaging fantasy. He was the protagonist. I violated his
space, bent his intention, twisted his morals.
With me he was degenerate, sinful, lusting, wild. With him I was my worst self. Dismissing
any promises and responsibilities. With him I burned. I was an animal. I howled for him in the
night.
He didn’t even know what he did to me. What touch I gave him. How he made me come. He
was the inspiration, I took artistic license. Don’t sue me.
When I looked at his hands on the restaurant table, all I could think about was when he finger banged me in Los Angeles.
My bra inexplicably popped open in the middle of our conversation. My lingerie reading my mind.
“I can smell you,” he said with a smile. I spread my legs. I smelled like the woods, like moss
covered in early morning dew. My hand wandered down my skirt. He watched my every move.
In my mind I was undressing him, ripping the buttons of his shirt like a tearaway track pant.
I took him home that night. Our discarded clothes like a trail of breadcrumbs to the bedroom.
I took him to a topless bar in East LA. Big butts, platform heels, gang tattoos. My fingers slid
up the stripper’s thigh as I tucked singles into her thong. His pants bulging, my little puppy
dog.
• “Make her jealous,” he said to the stripper while his eyes burned holes through me. Game on.
She gave him a lap dance while I sipped champagne out of a mini bottle.
• On the red velvet couch, he bit my neck, licked my ear, teased my nipples. I was the empress
in a sea of queens.
• Back at my place we ripped each others clothes off. Striptease. He got on his knees and his
tongue danced for me until I spun out of control.
• After he came on my chest he told me to close my eyes. He rubbed my body with a hot
towel, washing off his scent like a true gentleman.
He was walking sex. One step, one gesture enough to light me up, soak my panties, make
me gasp in sheer lust.
We were dancing in between the tables of a backroom bar. Pearls of sweat covering our
bodies, his hands sliding up my silk dress.
As soon as he opened his mouth, my water receded, every word like a desert storm killing
my blooming desire.
“Are you listening to me?” he asked after suggesting to go back to my place. No love, I’m
doing everything i can to stay wet for dessert.
At home I turned up the music, had him dance for me. My blood pumped through my pussy, I
could feel my heartbeat in my lips, in my clit, in my fucking uterus. I was a nocturnal athlete.
