Who the fuck has one third of a million followers on Facebook? More than forty thousand followers on Instagram? Who gets around sixteen thousand Likes on her pictures? My girl, that's who.
She's sort of a celebrity, complains about having lost 350 followers after uploading my picture, spends most of her time on the phone and takes more selfies on a day than any human being I've ever seen before. She's slender, has a generous behind and is loving, far more narcissistic and vain than her predecessors, younger too than most.
Youngest I've ever been with is 13 years of age, a girl in my childhood named Celina; I was just eleven years old then. I count that as my first experience, because mom would have me in-doors, never allowing me outside to play ball with the other kids in the neighborhood, frightful creature my mother was. She'd imagine the worse happening to me, God forbid I took the risk of playing ball with the other kids. Her fears extended beyond the domestic kind: Travelling on a plane, as we often did in order to go to the neighboring land Venezuela, she'd go through her usual routine of prayer, obsessive cross-signing, have a few cocktails before, during and throw up in bags after; sweat, become delirious. Suddenly, her eyes would roll back and she'd pant, her body would tense and rigid-up, she'd hold us tight against her chest and asked we pray with her. Her reasoning when she came to her senses, is that a plane flies so high above the sky, though it outweighs all things it still manages to glide through the heights of heaven, and God did not like men trying to play him, so she was afraid of God's wrath. She said we were all sinners and that, too, could tip the balance in favor of a midair plane catastrophe. She was kind of a dumb woman, but very resilient and cunning. In some other time, when she was young and beautiful, it might have looked cut. Men were willing to omit her lack in intellect as nature's way to compensate for what she had in abundance, beauty. One day her striking looks withered but by then she had already shipped her eldest son to the States and happily marry her two daughters to good, supportive, well-established men. Even at that, she did so much more for us than dad. There, holding us tight and praying out-loud for others not to doubt her consuming belief, I remember faking being afraid over and over again until I managed to convince myself of the impending, imminent trouble ahead, as my mind's fear so vividly portrayed and projected such ill-fed fallacy.
It's no wonder I am afraid of flying, and I must've been fearless until then because my dream had always been to become an astronaut one day. There, mother too instilled fear, said the day I climb on a spaceship, she'd take a step towards an early grave. She'd rather die than see me hop aboard my intergalactic spaceship, out on a interstellar mission to conquer the stars beyond. As a kid, I had been at the mercy of a woman who has pathologically overprotective, but she had been forced by her mother to drop out of school by the time she was nine years old and, therefore, she had no ideal role model to follow in motherhood.
Home was always packed with girls, my sister had many friends and we spent time in-doors playing mom and dad. Of course, I lost my virginity earlier than most men. Girl next door, two years older, and my smaller sister (whom by then was far wiser than me, and in such matters still is), both accepted me taking part in the kissing trials they had going on under the sheets. All I had to do was threaten I'd rat on them if they didn't let me in on their innocent little game. And so, one day the three of us, as innocently suggested by Celina, we shower at once. Celina said it'd save time and water, and from then on, we would all jump in the shower at once.
Since I became part of the games, Celina had grown closer to me than my sister, and my sister was fuming over it. Celina's plan wasn't to cozy up to me, no; her thoughts were aligned at a deceptive curve, reel me in and get me under her influence, then make her demands. I had been pushing the idea of sleeping together or, as we called it back then, play mom and dad.
Her proposition was, if I sleep with my own sister first, she'd sleep with me.
I was willing to sacrifice my own blood just to get a taste of her, but instead of following suit, I devised a covert operation: I faked having sex with my sister. Everything was going according to plan, my back was covering Celina's visual, and I was pretending to plow away at it. But then my sister interrupted the magical deception, screaming out loud:
"I don't feel anything!"
Celina interfered and said it wasn't necessary, that we'd do it first because she wanted to be my first. And once we did it, she did not want to be with my sister. We used to hide even from her, it wasn't easy, my sister had always been very intuitive and wise beyond her years. But we managed to be together as her parents and mine went off to work, our homes were interconnected since it was the same property and my mother had no moral dilemma on the deal. She actually was supposed to be taking care of us all, as she was paid for baby-sitting that "grown ass" girl, as she deemed Celina. Mom instead said she'd be back in a couple of hours and leave us home as she went out on a casual date.
I was eighteen years old when she was born. I could be her dad, she reasons. It's some dark fantasy of ours she brings under the sheets, as the other girl roommate comes to the kitchen and can sense the action going on behind the room dividers that separate the kitchen from the living room. Later the other girl texts me about having a smoke in the bathroom, and I jokingly pull her hair, she chokes, she laughs, she confesses out of nowhere she has three boyfriends. They have their own silly territorial thing going on: one day I find black strands of hair my girl left in the bathroom floor, for which I reprimand her, and the next day I find a swath of blond hair splashed across the bathroom wall that undoubtedly pertains to our roommate. The roommate is 32 years old and my girl, ten years her youngest, turns shy whenever she's around, says little as the older, more aggressive of the girls flirts with her, showers her with complements and my girl remains mum.
The roommate is more audacious, flashes an insinuating smile, instills a bit of discomfort, pushes the safe zone to the limit. But the roommate is very feminine and submissive towards me, as I am the most dominant figure of the three, make sure both get what they bargained for.
"I can tell you're a mother fucker of a man" she flatters me, as she asks for permission to bring one of her boyfriends in the room and quietly fuck him for an hour or so. Then they leave and she has that look of retribution on her face, as I lay on bed with my black beauty queen, tight ass, long, slender legs, thighs and hips, she's gaining weight since I overtook feeding her. We've been on a fuck spree for the past few weeks, everyday I make her mine, I own her and she gives herself to me completely. I think of ways to love her, not to answer fire with fire whenever she gets ignited over an issue, I bring peace and fuck her brains out.
"Did your boyfriend fuck you good?" I ask our roommate, as we go in the bathroom for a smoke.
"Did your girlfriend fuck you good?" she answers fire with fire.
"Men do most of the fucking, but yeah, she's good and spirited for her age" I answer her. "Are you any good of a fuck?" I ask her bluntly.
"I think so" she says, shying away. She knows she is in front of a self-assured male who would grab her by the neck and fuck her standing up against the wall in a moment's notice. She knows not what's stopping me, but she doesn't give any signs. Instead, she asks for my girl, is she home? What's she wearing? I think they like one another.
My girl playfully said, "Yeah, we already fucked. That bitch ate me out good." I laugh wholeheartedly. Who knows? Maybe the hair all over the apartment is because of sex-up matches they hold against one another in my absence.
Tension with other roommates is natural. It has happened in many instances before. The girl that lived her before spoke of her boyfriend and how frustrated she felt that he didn't seem resolved, almost unsure of himself, and he hadn't even wondered where she spent the extra three nights away from their place, a hundred miles from Jersey. She'd tell me this staring into my eyes, sipping Valerian tea, and dressed in a little girl sleep-over outfit. I'd tell her we'll have a sleep-over and watch movies together, cook for her and the other crazy Colombian flight attendant with whom she shared the room and had grown jealous of how close we had become.
"She looks older than you" Adriana had said, as she got dressed one night to go out. She was barely home and I told her so.
"Ah, you miss me, honey?"
I had seen her dress herself up to a decent fuck, she was chunky but shapely and knew how to play with her wild femmes, making use of the most attractive trail in her arsenal: her round and stout booty, heightened by wearing tights and fluffy furry shorts, as she readied to go out dressed as a cowgirl on a Halloween Friday night in New York, boots and hat, a red hair wig, heavy mascara and a zillion other details I bypassed to pay attentive discretion to her butt. Adriana was 22 years old, her parents had brought her from Colombia when she was still very little. She spoke fluently and had a sexy accent that stems from her native city, Cali.
"Is that what it is? You miss me?" she'd demand the truth with a toy pistol pointed out at me from her reflection in the mirror as she advertised herself by giving me her back. Less than beautiful girls master the game of subtle aggressiveness, where they momentarily adopt the role of the predator and go hunting for the man that they find more suitable. It's the reason why beautiful girls end up with males that are far less attractive than them and vice versa: you can see many divas everywhere with a guy that can easily have whomever he'd choose, but has been chosen and domesticated by a dominant woman figure. Women know what type of men they want, so if I ever come across a dominant woman, either she lowers her defenses for me and becomes docile or we just don't mesh. I like being the hunter and I love it when women give it a bit of a fight, when they play hardball and difficult, when they play hard to get. I like a challenge but I refrain from impossibilities. There has to be a sign of interest, or else I'll move on and come back at it some other time.
But girls who aren't necessarily beautiful sometimes make themselves indispensable, and this little girl from Cali just staring back at me from the mirror with a fake pistol in her hand, looked rather dashing.
"You're not gonna shoot me" I told her as I approached her from behind and held her up against the mirror, grabbed by the neck playfully.
"Let go, mother fucker!" she said. I pulled away and she came on swinging, disproportionately in strength as I had only teased her. She was passionate in her deliverance, so I had to hold her hands and push her over the sofa. She stood there, sitting still, defiant, put the TV on and assumed the position on all fours. I took her panties off as she looked for something to watch on the Roku channels.
"Unlike that old bitch you like so much, I do have a boyfriend who loves me, who's about to come pick me up" she said.
"And what's the problem?" I asked, as I caressed her inner thighs.
"He's so boring and predictable, and don't think you're nothing special, either. I already cheated on him every chance I got" she confessed.
I spanked her. A hard, sound smack on her butt cheeks.
"You've been giving me nothing but shit since you moved in" I tell her, sliding a finger down her rabbit hole.
She maintains her position on the sofa, in all fours, lifting her right arm to maneuver the channels. Her phone rings.
"That's him" she says, as she answered him: "Hi, babe."
The guy talks and she listens as she pays more attention now to me, how my fingers roll in and out of her, Adriana makes an effort not to gasp as she speaks.
"I'm almost done, honey" she says. "Give me ten more minutes and I'll be downstairs."
And then she hangs up and looks up to me:
"We got twenty minutes before he calls up on me again."
Of course, nothing happened, as I rushed her out the door before the second call came in. Later on that night, she walked in home, climbed on top of me, intoxicated, claiming her neck still ached from earlier on when I chocked her. Telling me her boyfriend saw the marks I left on her buttocks and wanted nothing to do with her. She said, she had told him the truth about us, what truth that was, specifically, I don't know. Her breath smelled of alcohol, her eyes are bloodshot, as I push her aside. She's now sitting in a neutral corner, crying inconsolably.
"I know he's cheating on me" she says.
Then I hug her and tell her to go to bed, she could sleep on it, tomorrow will be another day. And so, she does.
Youngest I've ever been with is 13 years of age, a girl in my childhood named Celina; I was just eleven years old then. I count that as my first experience, because mom would have me in-doors, never allowing me outside to play ball with the other kids in the neighborhood, frightful creature my mother was. She'd imagine the worse happening to me, God forbid I took the risk of playing ball with the other kids. Her fears extended beyond the domestic kind: Travelling on a plane, as we often did in order to go to the neighboring land Venezuela, she'd go through her usual routine of prayer, obsessive cross-signing, have a few cocktails before, during and throw up in bags after; sweat, become delirious. Suddenly, her eyes would roll back and she'd pant, her body would tense and rigid-up, she'd hold us tight against her chest and asked we pray with her. Her reasoning when she came to her senses, is that a plane flies so high above the sky, though it outweighs all things it still manages to glide through the heights of heaven, and God did not like men trying to play him, so she was afraid of God's wrath. She said we were all sinners and that, too, could tip the balance in favor of a midair plane catastrophe. She was kind of a dumb woman, but very resilient and cunning. In some other time, when she was young and beautiful, it might have looked cut. Men were willing to omit her lack in intellect as nature's way to compensate for what she had in abundance, beauty. One day her striking looks withered but by then she had already shipped her eldest son to the States and happily marry her two daughters to good, supportive, well-established men. Even at that, she did so much more for us than dad. There, holding us tight and praying out-loud for others not to doubt her consuming belief, I remember faking being afraid over and over again until I managed to convince myself of the impending, imminent trouble ahead, as my mind's fear so vividly portrayed and projected such ill-fed fallacy.
It's no wonder I am afraid of flying, and I must've been fearless until then because my dream had always been to become an astronaut one day. There, mother too instilled fear, said the day I climb on a spaceship, she'd take a step towards an early grave. She'd rather die than see me hop aboard my intergalactic spaceship, out on a interstellar mission to conquer the stars beyond. As a kid, I had been at the mercy of a woman who has pathologically overprotective, but she had been forced by her mother to drop out of school by the time she was nine years old and, therefore, she had no ideal role model to follow in motherhood.
Home was always packed with girls, my sister had many friends and we spent time in-doors playing mom and dad. Of course, I lost my virginity earlier than most men. Girl next door, two years older, and my smaller sister (whom by then was far wiser than me, and in such matters still is), both accepted me taking part in the kissing trials they had going on under the sheets. All I had to do was threaten I'd rat on them if they didn't let me in on their innocent little game. And so, one day the three of us, as innocently suggested by Celina, we shower at once. Celina said it'd save time and water, and from then on, we would all jump in the shower at once.
Since I became part of the games, Celina had grown closer to me than my sister, and my sister was fuming over it. Celina's plan wasn't to cozy up to me, no; her thoughts were aligned at a deceptive curve, reel me in and get me under her influence, then make her demands. I had been pushing the idea of sleeping together or, as we called it back then, play mom and dad.
Her proposition was, if I sleep with my own sister first, she'd sleep with me.
I was willing to sacrifice my own blood just to get a taste of her, but instead of following suit, I devised a covert operation: I faked having sex with my sister. Everything was going according to plan, my back was covering Celina's visual, and I was pretending to plow away at it. But then my sister interrupted the magical deception, screaming out loud:
"I don't feel anything!"
Celina interfered and said it wasn't necessary, that we'd do it first because she wanted to be my first. And once we did it, she did not want to be with my sister. We used to hide even from her, it wasn't easy, my sister had always been very intuitive and wise beyond her years. But we managed to be together as her parents and mine went off to work, our homes were interconnected since it was the same property and my mother had no moral dilemma on the deal. She actually was supposed to be taking care of us all, as she was paid for baby-sitting that "grown ass" girl, as she deemed Celina. Mom instead said she'd be back in a couple of hours and leave us home as she went out on a casual date.
I was eighteen years old when she was born. I could be her dad, she reasons. It's some dark fantasy of ours she brings under the sheets, as the other girl roommate comes to the kitchen and can sense the action going on behind the room dividers that separate the kitchen from the living room. Later the other girl texts me about having a smoke in the bathroom, and I jokingly pull her hair, she chokes, she laughs, she confesses out of nowhere she has three boyfriends. They have their own silly territorial thing going on: one day I find black strands of hair my girl left in the bathroom floor, for which I reprimand her, and the next day I find a swath of blond hair splashed across the bathroom wall that undoubtedly pertains to our roommate. The roommate is 32 years old and my girl, ten years her youngest, turns shy whenever she's around, says little as the older, more aggressive of the girls flirts with her, showers her with complements and my girl remains mum.
The roommate is more audacious, flashes an insinuating smile, instills a bit of discomfort, pushes the safe zone to the limit. But the roommate is very feminine and submissive towards me, as I am the most dominant figure of the three, make sure both get what they bargained for.
"I can tell you're a mother fucker of a man" she flatters me, as she asks for permission to bring one of her boyfriends in the room and quietly fuck him for an hour or so. Then they leave and she has that look of retribution on her face, as I lay on bed with my black beauty queen, tight ass, long, slender legs, thighs and hips, she's gaining weight since I overtook feeding her. We've been on a fuck spree for the past few weeks, everyday I make her mine, I own her and she gives herself to me completely. I think of ways to love her, not to answer fire with fire whenever she gets ignited over an issue, I bring peace and fuck her brains out.
"Did your boyfriend fuck you good?" I ask our roommate, as we go in the bathroom for a smoke.
"Did your girlfriend fuck you good?" she answers fire with fire.
"Men do most of the fucking, but yeah, she's good and spirited for her age" I answer her. "Are you any good of a fuck?" I ask her bluntly.
"I think so" she says, shying away. She knows she is in front of a self-assured male who would grab her by the neck and fuck her standing up against the wall in a moment's notice. She knows not what's stopping me, but she doesn't give any signs. Instead, she asks for my girl, is she home? What's she wearing? I think they like one another.
My girl playfully said, "Yeah, we already fucked. That bitch ate me out good." I laugh wholeheartedly. Who knows? Maybe the hair all over the apartment is because of sex-up matches they hold against one another in my absence.
Tension with other roommates is natural. It has happened in many instances before. The girl that lived her before spoke of her boyfriend and how frustrated she felt that he didn't seem resolved, almost unsure of himself, and he hadn't even wondered where she spent the extra three nights away from their place, a hundred miles from Jersey. She'd tell me this staring into my eyes, sipping Valerian tea, and dressed in a little girl sleep-over outfit. I'd tell her we'll have a sleep-over and watch movies together, cook for her and the other crazy Colombian flight attendant with whom she shared the room and had grown jealous of how close we had become.
"She looks older than you" Adriana had said, as she got dressed one night to go out. She was barely home and I told her so.
"Ah, you miss me, honey?"
I had seen her dress herself up to a decent fuck, she was chunky but shapely and knew how to play with her wild femmes, making use of the most attractive trail in her arsenal: her round and stout booty, heightened by wearing tights and fluffy furry shorts, as she readied to go out dressed as a cowgirl on a Halloween Friday night in New York, boots and hat, a red hair wig, heavy mascara and a zillion other details I bypassed to pay attentive discretion to her butt. Adriana was 22 years old, her parents had brought her from Colombia when she was still very little. She spoke fluently and had a sexy accent that stems from her native city, Cali.
"Is that what it is? You miss me?" she'd demand the truth with a toy pistol pointed out at me from her reflection in the mirror as she advertised herself by giving me her back. Less than beautiful girls master the game of subtle aggressiveness, where they momentarily adopt the role of the predator and go hunting for the man that they find more suitable. It's the reason why beautiful girls end up with males that are far less attractive than them and vice versa: you can see many divas everywhere with a guy that can easily have whomever he'd choose, but has been chosen and domesticated by a dominant woman figure. Women know what type of men they want, so if I ever come across a dominant woman, either she lowers her defenses for me and becomes docile or we just don't mesh. I like being the hunter and I love it when women give it a bit of a fight, when they play hardball and difficult, when they play hard to get. I like a challenge but I refrain from impossibilities. There has to be a sign of interest, or else I'll move on and come back at it some other time.
But girls who aren't necessarily beautiful sometimes make themselves indispensable, and this little girl from Cali just staring back at me from the mirror with a fake pistol in her hand, looked rather dashing.
"You're not gonna shoot me" I told her as I approached her from behind and held her up against the mirror, grabbed by the neck playfully.
"Let go, mother fucker!" she said. I pulled away and she came on swinging, disproportionately in strength as I had only teased her. She was passionate in her deliverance, so I had to hold her hands and push her over the sofa. She stood there, sitting still, defiant, put the TV on and assumed the position on all fours. I took her panties off as she looked for something to watch on the Roku channels.
"Unlike that old bitch you like so much, I do have a boyfriend who loves me, who's about to come pick me up" she said.
"And what's the problem?" I asked, as I caressed her inner thighs.
"He's so boring and predictable, and don't think you're nothing special, either. I already cheated on him every chance I got" she confessed.
I spanked her. A hard, sound smack on her butt cheeks.
"You've been giving me nothing but shit since you moved in" I tell her, sliding a finger down her rabbit hole.
She maintains her position on the sofa, in all fours, lifting her right arm to maneuver the channels. Her phone rings.
"That's him" she says, as she answered him: "Hi, babe."
The guy talks and she listens as she pays more attention now to me, how my fingers roll in and out of her, Adriana makes an effort not to gasp as she speaks.
"I'm almost done, honey" she says. "Give me ten more minutes and I'll be downstairs."
And then she hangs up and looks up to me:
"We got twenty minutes before he calls up on me again."
Of course, nothing happened, as I rushed her out the door before the second call came in. Later on that night, she walked in home, climbed on top of me, intoxicated, claiming her neck still ached from earlier on when I chocked her. Telling me her boyfriend saw the marks I left on her buttocks and wanted nothing to do with her. She said, she had told him the truth about us, what truth that was, specifically, I don't know. Her breath smelled of alcohol, her eyes are bloodshot, as I push her aside. She's now sitting in a neutral corner, crying inconsolably.
"I know he's cheating on me" she says.
Then I hug her and tell her to go to bed, she could sleep on it, tomorrow will be another day. And so, she does.
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