Appalachian Confessions

Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Babes

APPALACHIAN CONFESSIONS

If asked to respond with total honesty and in complete anonymity, I would imagine that most straight or borderline bisexual women would still deny having desires for another female, nor would they confess to having other – for lack of a better term – guilty pleasures.

I guess I’m the exception.

Although I suppose that I could technically be categorized as a “closeted” bisexual woman, I have come to terms very long ago with my somewhat “off-centered” sexual desires. I’m really not being secretive about it. I just don’t feel that it’s something that the general public needs to know. So there you have it. I admit it. Although I really don’t mind the company of men at all, I admittedly also have a weakness for other women. It – not unlike my other less healthy addiction – has become something of an obsession. More about that “other obsession” a bit later, after we have gotten to know one another. That is a much darker secret that I have yet to share with anyone. Perhaps you will be the first.

For those of you who may shallowly need to hear the graphic details of my lustful cravings, believe me when I say I’m not judging you at all. In fact I’m probably the last person to be judgmental. So if you really must know, my ultimate fantasy is to wake up in the morning being almost literally smothered. Yes, that’s right. Me – the shy mousy brown-haired church-going accounting clerk – barely reaching 5’3 inches and maybe ten – no, make that thirteen – pounds overweight. Okay, okay – I’m nearly sixteen pounds above what the dieticians and other so-called experts would consider to be the ideal weight, and of course most of it is in my butt and thighs. So – no surprise here, but I’m not perfect – far from it.

Anyway, back to my graphic obsession. I am not particular. My ideal “smotherer” can be black, white or anything in between. Come to think of it, I have had recent fantasies about one particular female Avatar as well, so the color blue should probably be added to my imaginary sexual checklist. Weight is also not much of a concern although if I had a choice I would prefer my partners to be a bit plus-sized, mainly to make me feel less self-conscious about my own figure. As for personal grooming, I have to admit that although I’m unlikely to shy away from a freshly shaven peach, I would prefer my partners’ private area to be slightly furry. Still with me?

So – to my future partners – if I’m fortunate enough to find one, please please please… don’t be too shy to wake me by applying moist wet pressure on my mouth and nose – either facing me or not. To be blunt, sit firmly on my face, please! There, I said it. Is that too much to ask? I would be in heaven – at least for a little while. It’s so much more exciting than waking to a damned annoying alarm clock, don’t you think? To hear myself say it and to actually see it in writing is embarrassing, but is also admittedly a huge turn-on, and after way too much soul searching, I’m finally okay with that. I have to be. It’s not like I can deny my cravings, from wherever in my past they were borne.

Of course, it IS primarily just a fantasy. I am sexually active in my somewhat warped mind, but reality is a much different story. I can count my total number of lovers – both male and female – on both hands (with a couple of fingers to spare), and I haven’t yet gotten up the nerve to actually ask someone to wake me that way. Since I feel like we’re getting to know each other more intimately already, I must confess to you that I’m wet just thinking about it. It’s true – There really IS something therapeutic about sharing this. Maybe it will also help me with my “other” desire. We shall see.

I should probably take you back to the period just before my awakening. In a moment of guilt-ridden confessional weakness, I may break down and share a few things that even my cut-rate therapist hasn’t heard, so I have come up with a pseudonym in order to reduce the already unlikely chance of anyone identifying me. You can call me Destiny if you feel the need to attach a name to this “confession.” It feels right for some reason. Although it’s not my real name it does contain more than a couple of letters that may just lead you to the one that will forever be etched on a few tree trunks near the trailer park back home, along with my long-lost birth certificate. Think about it.

Anyway, back to the early 1990s and the debauchery that brought us here in the first place. Remember those spare fingers I mentioned earlier? Well, despite my shyness and naiveté, I instinctively learned how to use them to maximum advantage around that time. I suppose in that respect I was not unlike most horny teens. The exception may be the types of thoughts that never failed to drive me over the edge. Of course, I did have the stereotypical “go to” bank of male heart throbs with whom I could build sexual scenarios, but those fantasies required much more concentration and effort on my part, and with the six of us stuffed into a double-wide trailer home, I rarely had the time – or the privacy – to unnecessarily prolong my masturbatory experiences. mersin escort Showers were somewhat more private, but our broken-down water heater rarely afforded us more than a few minutes of lukewarm water before turning ice cold, which as I’m sure you know can quickly murder a nice erotic buildup. Sorry – I guess I shouldn’t have used the ‘M’ word – yet.

When time was an issue in those cases, I could simply close my eyes, slide my soft hand into my panties and imagine the secret that I shared with you earlier. Although I never timed myself, back then I’m sure that I was able to cum in less than three minutes from start to finish with only that wonderful forbidden thought to fuel me.

I guess I can blame (thank?) my late father’s porn collection for the development of that fantasy. He was never very good at hiding his diverse stash of vintage materials from my older brothers. Back then I think I knew when they were up to something, but I was usually in a world of my own, studying or avoiding running into my so-called stepmom who always had a long mis-spelled list of chores waiting to spring on me. More about her later, maybe.

Anyway, having three older brothers has its perks along with its pitfalls. Outwardly they were very protective of their younger sister as I’m sure you can imagine, but behind closed doors they loved tormenting me, usually just to alleviate their boredom. I was an easy target. Before you get the wrong impression, the answer is no. Unless you count a few quick feels when swimming together in the river, they never really touched me inappropriately, although if they had it may help to explain some of the lingering demons from whom I cannot seem to escape. My brothers’ torment consisted primarily of their juvenile attempts to embarrass me, which naturally included “accidentally” providing me with glimpses of our father’s forbidden magazines.

When they first exposed me to the “treasure” I remember turning beet red, which amused them to no end. Of course I pretended to be disgusted, and initially I think I truly was, but the seed was planted and there was no turning back. The first glimpses consisted of torn pages in well-worn and stained magazines containing photos depicting blowjobs and a variety of clearly staged scenes, one of which I later learned was called “double penetration.” Although I felt a slight warmth down there despite – or due to – the crudeness of the glossy photos, I wasn’t compelled to see more of that type of material. Side note – I admit that I fantasized a time or two about myself being in some of those positions, but I learned quickly that those scenarios were never going to take me to the promised land on their own. Not even close, which I suppose is a bit of a relief. I’m sorry if you think less of me for that, but I’m just being honest. Maybe there is hope for me yet!

As a result of my brothers’ juvenile acts, I found that I acquired a thirst to see more of our father’s secret collection. I ultimately discovered the primary hiding place through some creative sleuthing, and when my family chose to go to an all-weekend Knob Creek gun show without me, I seized the rare opportunity to do some exploring, and my life would never be the same.

I have to admit that I was a bit disappointed in the location of my father’s hiding place. He clearly didn’t put a ton of thought into “protecting” us from the vulgarities. Most of the magazines were in his bottom drawer, hidden under his “tighty whities” and sweat-stained T-shirts. His collection of VHS tapes was a bit harder to find, but considering that I never once saw my father bowling, I was curious about the old relatively dust-free two-toned bowling bag in his closet. The mystery was soon solved. In it was the motherlode – hiding no less than fifteen full-length tapes, with one of them immediately catching my attention and becoming ingrained in my memory banks forever – “Sapphic Sleepover.”

It amazes me that as I type this particular decades-old memory, I still find my pulse racing and my breath quickening. Most of the tapes were generic, with hand-written titles adorning their spines; however, the one that drew my attention actually contained a curled and yellowing picture of a fuller-figured brunette straddling the shoulders of a more petite woman. If I had to guess, I would place them in their early thirties. The straddler held her partner’s head firmly in her hands as she looked down at her willing cohort lustfully. Her peach-colored bikini panties were pushed slightly to the side, exposing a neatly trimmed dark triangle, matted by the exposed tongue of her partner.

Needless to say, in my mind it was ME who was satisfying the brunette, and it took everything in my power to avoid unsnapping my old frayed jean shorts right then and there. What was happening to me? I don’t remember ever thinking of another girl in that way, yet here I was – instantly drenched at the thought. Catching my breath, I gathered the tapes in one hand and quickly moved to the main room – the only one with a VCR – with the videos in tow. In the back of my mind, I wondered if the coast was clear. It was certainly possible mersin escort bayan that my family could return, but at that point I really didn’t care. I only knew that I needed to see the actual video regardless of the consequences. It was my mission. In typing this I’m almost as wet now as I was back then. Sorry but I need to take a short break for just a little taste from my fingers. Back in five….

Whew! Where were we? Oh yes, THAT video. I don’t know how many times I watched it or even how many times I came that day. I lost all track of time, and before I knew it the sun was setting. The other tapes went untouched, to be viewed at a later date. I should have slept like a baby, but I really couldn’t slow my heart rate, with images of the delicious scene ingrained in my mind. My head spun, and I closed my eyes, fantasizing yet again that it was me who was being straddled. I could almost feel the brunette climbing up and over my reclined body, and I unconsciously grabbed my pillow, mimicking her movements as I slowly slid it up from between my legs and my now-sore overworked pussy. Sliding it up further… across my tummy, over my small breasts and against my upper chest. No longer a pillow, it morphed into the curvy older brunette, with full thighs parting and her freshly-trimmed dark mound now inches from my chin. To enhance the sensation I even slid my moist panties off and moved them between the pillow and against my face, then pressed the full pillow tightly over me, almost gasping for breath.

My tongue flicked over the crotch of my damp panties before getting up the nerve to fully take them into my mouth, for the first time savoring my own taste on my lips. The aroma itself just drove me wild, and I couldn’t resist sliding my hand yet again between my parted legs, which quickly resulted in yet another intense orgasm. I don’t remember how long I lay there before finally nodding off with the sex tapes strewn across the room. Fortunately my family didn’t return that evening; otherwise there would be no explanation for what they would have found.

The next morning was more of the same, before I finally showed some restraint and forced myself to reluctantly place the videos back into their secret hiding place, unsure of the exact sequence and suddenly wondering if my father would realize it if they were out of order. I tried to convince myself that my excitement was primarily the result of the taboo nature of the videos. I knew I wasn’t a lesbian. I couldn’t be. Up to that point my entire bank of fantasies consisted of virile men or neighborhood boys around my age, never middle-aged women, and I was embarrassed to think that I spend nearly a full weekend cumming to thoughts of the brunette in the video. I did find myself wondering – hoping – that it was just a silly weekend diversion. I spent the rest of the day cleaning the trailer and making sure to remove any traces of my weekend of exploring.

My family finally returned late on Sunday night, parading past me as I slouched in one of our cheap lawn chairs on our small cut-out dirt “lawn” area while sipping sweet tea from an oversized plastic “Dickey’s BBQ” cup. I think I overheard one of them saying something crude about the cup while the others smirked, but I just ignored them as they passed. I heard the cheap screen door groan and slam shut as my gaze shifted to our neighbor across the dusty gravel drive. I always did my best to keep to myself in the trailer park, but tonight I couldn’t help but sneak glances over at Lucy Rae, and I felt a familiar tingling between my legs. I didn’t know much about Lucy despite us being neighbors for nearly my entire life, but I was pretty sure that she was a single mom like most of the trailer park’s inhabitants.

I briefly wondered if that would eventually be my lot as well, but I pushed that depressing thought from my head as I continued to watch my neighbor. From my count, she had at least four children ranging in age from six or seven to late teens, and she had occasional male visitors who seemed to pay no attention to the kids. If I had to guess I would put her in her late-thirties – roughly the same age as the woman in the video, and nearly twice my age at the time. Suddenly my mind took over, and it was Lucy Rae – not my pillow – climbing over me and straddling my shoulders. Although it was only around sixty degrees that night and there was a cool breeze, I found myself perspiring and watching her through half-closed eyes. The mind is an amazing thing. It transformed that chain-smoking baby mama into a curvy but firm voluptuous brunette. I bit my lip as I imagined pleasing her in “that” way. She caught me looking, and I weakly raised my hand to wave at her. She did a double-take and turned away, ignoring me and snapping me back into reality. I watched her generous butt shaking slightly as she climbed the shaky wooden steps and stepped into the confines of her rusty tin palace without another glance my way.

Everything from that weekend on felt different. It was as if I was awakened to a world that I never knew existed. My sexual triggers suddenly shifted from the boys escort mersin in my senior year to almost everyone – male or female – in my classes, although I was sure that I was invisible to most of them. Looking back on it now – nearly three decades later, I realize that I didn’t at all fit into any of the typical cliques. I certainly wasn’t athletic nor was I a debutante. In fact, no one in my back-woods high school would fit into that category. I wasn’t your typical nerd either. Being extremely shy, I didn’t have any close friends in whom I could confide my newly-felt desires. So, if I actually got up the nerve to explore these feelings, I had no real basis in which to start. I was always terrible at flirting. In the rare times that I tried it would come across as desperate and frankly pathetic; however, I was determined to work hard to improve in that area. In educating myself with my father’s collection – mainly through his old Penthouse Forum magazines, I realized that it would have been much easier to explore my new cravings in the typical “Forum” settings – college dorm rooms, women’s changing rooms or even sleepovers. I was too naïve to realize that these were made-up stories, likely by middle-aged men still living in their parents’ basements while typing out their own version of erotica with one greasy calloused hand. In my mind if it was in black and white it was non-fiction. Unfortunately, reality was much different for me, and I would imagine for most who are tempted to explore these desires. Unless I took the initiative (totally foreign to my personality) I would have to rely on chance if I were ever to experience this “need” firsthand; otherwise, I was destined to settle for a lifetime of masturbatory fantasy.

At that point my only experiences were a few awkward fondlings in rusty old pickup trucks or in the woods behind our trailer park with some of the local boys. Although I desperately wanted to experience more with them, the timing was never right. It wasn’t that I was saving myself or was overly virtuous, but as they say, it takes two to tango. Weeks after my discovery, I finally was officially and unceremoniously “deflowered” in the bed of a beat-up old Ford pickup after a late-night bonfire party and some cheap shared MD2020 wine. Not only was that my first full sexual experience, it was also my very short-lived entry into recreational drug use. I didn’t feel guilty doing it, but I just didn’t understand the allure. It was hard enough to be in control of myself, so I didn’t need to further cloud my thoughts with dope or wine.

I don’t have much to share about the short and quick event. I don’t even need to share his name here. He was basically anonymous – the typical neighborhood redneck drop-out who happened to be in the right (or wrong) place at the right time. We were both some combination of drunk and high, and one thing led to another. I did insist on a condom, but to be honest I really didn’t know if he used one or not. We made out at the bonfire, then later on the tailgate of his truck, and before I knew it my legs were spread and he was pressing against me down there.

I always worried about the first-time pain, but maybe my senses were dulled by the pot. I can’t really say that it was a disappointment because I really didn’t know what to expect, but I do remember where my thoughts again wandered to as I held on for dear life while he slid in and out of me. Reality didn’t get me to cum, but my fantasy of “her” again pressing her amazing mound against my waiting mouth certainly did it for me. I suddenly bucked hard against him, and I’m sure he thought he was the cause because he thrust harder and even lifted both of my legs over his shoulders as he let out a shriek that sounded almost like a feral cat’s tail being stepped on as he came. If he only knew that it was Lucy Rae – yet again, and not him – that took me yet again to that amazing place!

Despite that, suddenly feeling vulnerable, I instinctively reached to wrap my arms around him, my first true lover. It was after all a milestone event for me, no matter how disappointing it was. A smirk and quick kiss on my forehead as he pulled out of me was my only thank you. In the darkness I watched as he found my discarded panties and wiped his deflating cock clean on them before tossing them into the bed of the truck next to me. I leaned on my elbows and quietly asked him when I could see him again. I’ll never forget the look of indifference in his eyes as he muttered, “Dunno, whenever.” Not quite my Hallmark moment, but what did I really expect?

We dressed separately, and he was nice enough to drive me back to the trailer park’s entrance. Before climbing off of the torn seat, I looked at him, not quite sure what to say. He fumbled with the radio without a glance in my direction. I shrugged and closed the door behind me. It barely shut before I heard his tires spinning on the loose gravel, and he was gone, leaving a dusty trail in his wake. I realized that it was much later than my normal night out, although I never really had a curfew. I passed by Lucy Rae’s trailer and glanced over at it as I felt my heart racing again and my sore pussy tingling. If she only knew that it was HER that I made love to earlier that night! I was relieved to see nothing but darkness in the windows of her trailer. After all, what did I expect to happen if the lights were on?

Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Bir cevap yazın