Erotic story for adult personals-Joanna.

People ask how it was, that summer with the insatiable Joanna.
I: escorting her on her trimphial process through the art galleries and salons of the city, and afterward to her private retreat, to serve her as best I could.
She: renaissance woman, engineer, artist, author, adventurer, and, as I mentioned above, insatiable in her appetites and imaginings.
She had an unusual idea of foreplay--had designed a battery-powered device, or series of devices, to wear beneath those tights and leotards she favored to display her wiry body (twenty-three at the time, she had the height, the small, firm breasts, and the innocent face of a fourteen-year-old...a fourteen-year-old that has grown up in small-town Texas, rather than--as was the actual case--the malls of Long Island). I saw her install it many times: first lubricating, then inserting the small, black vibrator into her anus, another into her vagina, then attaching (with the aid of EEG cement) her own design of electrode at the base of her clitoris and on each of her beautiful, brown nipples, already seeming to tighten and stand. Then on with the concealing panties and bra, then the tights, the leotard, and whatever eye-wrenching, breath-stopping topping she had invented. She would test the remote control, a palm-sized, black device with five pressure switches, and shiver approvingly as each little machine responded.
Then we would go out to whatever was on that night. Sometimes --at a movie, say (an opening for one of her director friends)--her hands out of sight in the darkness, speaking occasionally across the aisle. Only now and then would her eyes close and her breath catch at some interior drama. Then we would go into brightness, chatter, movement in a room. She would hand the control to me and wander off to speak to someone or stand before a window, a painting. She claimed to be able to distinguish my mood by the touch on the controls. Sometimes I favored long, circular rhythms that actuated each button in turn, punctuated with periods of silence--to leave her in anticipation of where, and when, the next little shock would arrive. At other times, throwing finesse to the winds, all the buttons at once.
Her self-control was remarkable. My favorite game was to catch her in animated, intellectual discussion with some gray professor of theoretical art. From behind, I could see her small buttocks clench. As she stood in conversation, her back would, almost imperceptibly, arch, she would put down her glass of mineral water, grasp one wrist in the other hand behind her, push her shoulders back. (The effect of this bit of body language on her conversational partner was always a secret joy to behold.) Her high cheeks would flush, her eyes brighten, and she would, just a little, rock her pelvis--but meanwhile not miss a conversational beat. I did, twice, cause her to have to excuse herself and move out of the limited range of the control, but she was back again within moments each time.
By the time we were ready to leave, to go back in the back of a darkened car to her apartment, we would be ready to tear into each other. But Joanna's rule (Was she controlling? Was I acquiescent? What do you think?) was always "Don't come on the carseat." With our hands down the front of our pants and her small, sweaty body wriggling, her tongue (that taste of pate in another's teeth), the rule was almost violated more than once.

1 2 3

Erotic Story