Taing Chances

*author's note*

Please be aware, that I am writing this-beyond the whole, that a writer who literally lives to write, HAS to write-for someone I have had a special, strong friendship with for close to a year. We never really got beyond some heavy sexual flirting, innuendo because...we just didn't. I'll prolly post the next, 'tween his knees and knocking him flat on his back chapter very soon. I sooo wanna get to licking those dents, even if it's just in my mind!

I really didn't know what to do with myself. Gavin was working on the house and I didn't want to distract him or get in the way. He'd picked me up from the bus station at like two in the morning and I'd been so tired that I was tripping over my feet and staggering like a drunk. I'd only ridden on a Greyhound once in my life before. And that just a three hour trip, when I was sixteen and off to Wisconsin to be a camp counselor for the summer.

Daddy had marched me down the aisle and plumped me into a seat next to a fierce but immediately cooing at me woman in her sixties whom I doubt even Hitler would have gone up against. And sent such a fierce look around at all things male with in my vicinity that any cock threatening to stir at the site of a nubile, leggy, under age blond, must have withered aborning.

It was a little different this time.

I had a seat to myself. The bus wasn't badly crowded and I'd made certain of keeping the second half of the seat unoccupied by plopping my carry on bag squarely on the empty seat beside me. Then I'd buried my nose in a book and refused to look up even when the bus headed out of the terminal. But wow, there were some scary people riding that bus and even though it was over a seven hour trip I was afraid to even think about closing my eyes, figuring I'd either get molested or somehow lose my luggage.

I hadn't slept much the night before-too excited and wondering just how certifiably crazy my doing this meant I was. So yeah, I was punch drunk, bleary eyed staggering when I got off the Greyhound. And almost water works grateful that Gavin was waiting right there, safe and solid looking.

He took my bag from me, and after I bounced off the wall for the second or third time, put a casual, guiding arm around my shoulder, something else I was grateful for.

He lead me out to a truck, tucked me into the passenger side, even doing up my seatbelt for me, then tossed my bag into the back and got behind the wheel.

"Take a nap if you'd like."

I think I said something wittily brilliant like "huh wha?" or maybe I just gaped dim witted. (Hope I remembered to shut my mouth before I started drooling.) And that's pretty much all she wrote, so to speak. I don't know how long we drove, and I just vaguely remember him helping me out of the truck and into a house, then tucking me-alone, and still fully clothed in my pretty little sleeveless dress-into bed.

When I woke up I was alone in the house. There was a note on the kitchen table telling me there was food in the fridge and clean towels in the bathroom. And that he'd gone over to the house and would be back later. He'd added that I should feel free to wander over and keep him company if I wanted to.

But like I said, I didn't want to be a pest or get in the way. And I didn't want him thinking I was going to expect him to entertain me when I knew he had work to do. I'm pretty good at being unobtrusive and not getting in the way. So I had breakfast, and then a shower, and decided to go lay out in the sun to help my hair dry. Somehow I'd managed to forget my hair dryer, and hair as long and thick as mine takes hours to air dry. The heat of the sun would speed that up at least a little.

It had been about three hours...and my hair was almost fully dry. Plus my skin was giving me that little hint that it was maybe a bit PAST time to get the hell out of the sun. And to be honest I was a little bored.

And me bored is never, never, EVER a good idea. I always seem to get in trouble when I'm bored. Sometimes it's deliberate, on purpose(BUTTONS...oh shiny let's push and see what happens!) Other times it just happens-I'm not looking for trouble. Trouble just has a bead on my Irish ass.

It was late enough in the day that I figured it wouldn't hurt to go searching for Gavin, he was probably getting close to finishing up for the day, so I got to my feet, staggering a bit, slightly sun daft, and went inside to change out of my swim suit.

When I took the bottoms off, they were more then a little damp. Some of that was just normal-woman juice; it happens. Some of us more then others. And I'm of the type who always seems to be a little wet. The fact that I'm usually wandering around writing erotic stories in my head if my brain isn't engaged in what my body is doing might have a good bit to do with that. I'm a very sexual woman, and I'm usually thinking about things erotic. I remember reading a study about how many sex thoughts a man has in an hour and I'm pretty sure I'd be at the head of that study, if they'd included me in it.

And of course, I'd been thinking about Gavin during those hours of lying in the sun. That was to be expected, and some what of a habit I'd fallen into from almost the start of my "knowing" him, even though I'd also known, almost from that same start, that he was at least emotionally involved with someone.

We "met", close to a year ago, on line, when I started playing a new RPG. I don't know, maybe he was just bored; there probably weren't that many players on line. Maybe he just liked my game nick-Minkx-it's unusual. A lot of people mail me simply because they're curious about the nick. Maybe he was casually impressed with what a fierce little tenacious gamer I was. Regardless of the whys and how comes, he elected to send me some money so I could get a better house in that game and train harder.

And we started to mail chat.

So I don't know why it started, but I'm glad it did. Because he became someone very special to me. A person that I'd look for on line. Who I'd send mail to, so they'd know I was on line, when they came on. He became a friend, and a special one. Some one I shared secrets with, who gave me secrets back. Someone I could tell my "bad things" to. And someone who knew, he could in return, give me his.

He was some kinda wonderful; some one who never bored me, some one I loved to talk to because, damn, that's one fine mind. And let me tell you this...and I'm pretty sure, right now, that I am drooling because that mind is paired to a body I wanted to lay out, lay down and lick, suck and literally devour from the first time I saw it. And the first time I saw him shirtless-I think I'd have paid for that pleasure!

Because he's flat out beautiful.

He does work, that works his body. He doesn't sit behind a desk. And when you look at that body, you don't have to know anything about him to know that. It's obvious.

I tease him about his "dents". He's got that sexy, hard bodied definition, at the sides of his hips, just up above where a low slung towel leaves a man bare. Every time I'd see that, when we'd chat and he had his web cam on, I'd forget my name, anything else I was supposed to be doing, hell I'd even forget to breath!

All I wanted to do was lunge through that web cam and find a horizontal surface to shove him prone on. Didn't care if it was the floor, a bed, the table he ate on. Only thing my hormone driven, horny mind could think was, gimme, gimme, GIMME THAT! And give it to me now!

I wanted to push him down and taste him. Because it was all yummy nummies, that body. The strong shoulders, the flat belly; all ridges and muscles, and sweet heaven, those dents! They just...dipped...so perfect, I'd have damn near sold my soul to be able to have him, all to myself. They made this beautiful little hollow that I wanted to explore; to lick, long laps, over and over, and seductive angles that I wanted to nibble and bite at until I made him so crazy that he begged me for more!

He always talks about how much he likes to give-that's pretty obvious, if you know him. He's a caretaker type, just like me. Another thing we have in common. But when he talks about it in the sexual way, like when he tells me how he wants to eat me out for hours, and make me cum over and over, until I'm begging him to stop, babbling that I can't take any more-and then do me more...

Or when he talks about doing it with me 69, both of us taking and giving pleasure, I think, hell yeah, can we put that down on a calender somewhere, a firm date, in INK! But at the same time, there's that lil Irish hellion, German stubborn, bossy bitch of a brat katt thinking, fine and dandy lover. I kinda want to hold you to those lusciously lewd ideas, but here's the kicker...when we meet, if we ever meet, I'm gonna get MY fantasy first.

Because I am aching, throbbing, dying hungry to do that to him...shove him down flat and prone and just suck and lick and explore every part of that beautiful body. Want, have, TAKE...gimme gimme!

I don't know how long I stood there like a pole axed cow thinking about those dents and my need to just lay that man out flat and all but rape him, but when I came back to the read world, nude and still absently dangling my bikini bottoms from one lax finger, I wasn't just damp anymore, I was flat out wet; pussy juice having slid down my thighs and long legs, almost to my ankles, and when I jolted, and spun around to check that Gavin wasn't standing in the open door way, wondering what the hell my problem was, the lips of my sex and my clit were so swollen with blood and sexual arousal that the movement almost brought on an orgasm, and I had to grab the back of a handy chair, and stand there for long moments, shivering and shuddering, so poised and on the brink...

I could cum in a minute, I thought, probably in just a few seconds, my hands already sliding down my belly. All I have to do is just pinch my clit, the way I like it, hard, just once. And I almost did it. There was no reason not to. Even if I looked up to see Gavin watching me from the doorway-he'd be turned on and aroused, not thinking I was some nasty slut.

But I didn't...I wanted to go to Gavin. I wanted to see him and be with him. I wanted to save my arousal and my sexual hunger for him. He was the one who made me feel this way. He was the one that just thinking even the mildest sexual thoughts about could make my body hum, and sing and throb. He gave me this exquisite pleasure, even when he wasn't doing anything. And I felt that I owed him this explosion that my body wanted to experience so desperately. It was his. It belonged to him.

I didn't even clean the sexual juices from my thighs, just let them dry naturally as I quickly ran a brush through my long, wheat blond hair and slicked on a little casual makeup. I only used a pineapple flavored balm on my full mouth. I wanted-no I was GONNA be-using those lips all over that long lusted for body and I didn't want the goo of a thick gloss or the taint of lipstick getting in the way.

Oh I wanted to make a mess all over him...believe you me on that one. But it was gonna be a mess of sweat and spit and both our juices; natural things, as honest and basic in it's essence as my hunger for this man was.

I didn't put in earrings, even just casual ones, because I had every intention of at some point being on my knees with his blood engorged, erect cock as deep in my throat as I could get it. And if he wanted to twist his fingers into my hair, or cradle the sides of my face, to direct or guide me in sucking him to an earth shattering spend, no earrings meant he wouldn't have to spare a thought about possibly hurting me.

No necklace either, although I usually wear something. But I ached for him to be able to grab at my waist length hair, or circle my throat, with the same ease.

I did wear bracelets on both wrists; the one on my left of a thin gold and platinum series of delicate links, the left one an antique African beaten copper, open work piece that ended at both ends with tiny elephant heads that glittered with little ruby eyes.

And of course my slave anklet, because I rarely take that off. It's delicate enough to fit under boots or thick winter socks, and I like it. It's simply, sexy as hell when you combine it with my long legs and dancer's habit of walking some what on my toes. It suits me. It looks so fragile you'd think a hard breath would shatter it, but I've snagged it on many things in the years I have owned it, and it doesn't come apart. Just like me.

That left what to wear. He already knew I rarely wear bras...my standard answer to when or if I do, is usually, weddings or funerals. I'm a tomboy still at heart, and I mostly have a tomboy's taut body. I definitely have breasts, they just don't bounce or flop around.

I decided to wear a pink mini sheath dress. I was wearing that dress in the first picture he ever saw of me, what I call my smirk picture. Pretty in pink, with a smart ass, cocky little smirk. I still love that dress; it's fresh and uncomplicated and just a sexy little thing that suits a long legged katt.

And I wore it with nothing underneath. Just bare skin that I'd lightly coated in cherry almond body lotion.

It wasn't a heavy scent, and I wondered if he'd be able to catch the sent of aroused women beneath. When I was getting ready to go search him out, while I'd brushed my hair and my teeth, and put on the little bit of makeup I'd applied, I'd been getting little scent whiffs. I liked that smell, the same way I liked how a clean man smelled, a man who'd showered that morning, a man who showered regularly. Maybe it's just that I'm a country girl, but I like the smell of a man who's worked hard all day, earning an honest sweat. It's raw, and it's earthy, and it seems to me, that the sent of a dawn's start shower, still comes through.

Well, I was pretty much good to go now. All I needed to do was slip on some simple sandals, to protect my feet from wood slivers and errant, escaped nails. And suddenly I was attacked by a silly, overwhelming sense of shyness!

Hate this, hate this, HATE THIS...it hits me, never when I'm expecting or girded up against it. And when it does, I want to find a quiet, dim closet to hide in, where no one can see me or judge me or find me lacking. And it always makes me wonder, am I ever going to get over feeling like this? When the fuck am I going to be able to look at the woman I see in the mirror and really, truly SEE her. That mind's eye picture...I really wish I could blow up the camera that takes those pictures.

I almost just sat my ass down to wait for Gavin to come find me.

But like I've said, I'm Irish, and I get mad when my tendency to feel insecure tries to take over and shatter/shudder me. And I'm German, which usually makes me too bloody stubborn to meekly give in or up-and thank the gods and genetics and genes or what ever the hell for all of the above. Because otherwise I probably would be living in a closet some where. That or a nut house.

So I darted back into the bedroom, grabbed my sandals, and high tailed my ass out of the house. Sexy, sweet Gavin, here comes trouble!