Hot Colts fan cheers for wrong team
- August 30th, 2010
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She may be hot, but she sure isn’t too bright…
Hot Colts Fan Cheers For Wrong Team – Watch more free videos
You can’t stop her. You can only hope to contain her.
Hot Colts Fan Cheers For Wrong Team – Watch more free videos
Sexy Dance Fail
- August 29th, 2010
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Head Banger – Watch more free videos
I find the fact that the song playing is “Tonight’s gonna be a good night” is very ironic / funny.
Strippers
- August 14th, 2010
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by Greg Jenkins If my mouth had swung open any wider, my chin would’ve bounced off the macadam parking lot where I stood stunned and weak-kneed, teetering with my two plastic bags of groceries. The girl in the window above me was sinfully young and achingly beautiful and artlessly sensuous in her movements. (And she was moving, I noticed.) A lambent angel in the gray evening sky. She was also, I noticed, as close to being naked as any young man would’ve dared to wish for. It was a Thursday in early summer, the dusk misty and warm. I’d just finished buying my usual quota of uninspired staples at the Superfresh—cereal, tuna fish, TV dinners—and I was headed to the far, dim corner of the lot where I’d parked my pickup. I never parked close to my destination; I liked to walk, and I especially liked to walk when my head was loaded with chemicals, as it usually was in those days. My job got me high. I stripped furniture for a living, and all day long I breathed fumes that put the world on a tilt, and made me feel sad when I shouldn’t, and caused me to think that my sinuses—and even the inside of my skull—were coated with a thin, shimmery layer of silver or frost or one on top of the other. When I drew near my truck, a pink light came on above me, and it shot through my fuzzy mind that this—the sudden wash of pinkness—might be another effect of the methylene chloride. But then I looked up and saw a large lilac bush, heavy with thick white flowers, and behind it a wooden apartment house, and above the white-tipped lilac, two stories up, a casement window glowing softly with a warm pink light. In a moment, the girl stepped to the window. She was wearing only a low-scooped bra and thong panties—white or possibly pink. Not a stitch more that I could see. As I stared up at her, she began to move, to stroll back and forth with a kind of slow, languid, musical rhythm. Sometimes she’d turn away from me, and that’s when I saw she was wearing a thong. “God up in heaven,” I whispered. It never occurred to me that what I was doing might be wrong—or that what she was doing might be wrong. I was caught up in the moment, and while it lasted, nothing else seemed to matter. At first I didn’t think she was aware of me, but then I began to suspect differently. Her graceful movements—the strolling, the strutting—began now to evolve into something else. Into dancing. Very gradually and subtly, she’d begun to dance, swaying and stretching and undulating in the window. Her movements were slow and controlled, yet they were passionate too, especially when her long auburn hair swept across her full breasts, and her slender hands, as if of their own volition, passed down over those same breasts, to her taut belly, to her lush thighs, and then lovingly back up again. She kept at it for five or ten minutes, maybe more, and then suddenly the light cut out, and the window was dark. Her performance had clearly been aimed at pleasing her one-man audience, and I could’ve mused that she was simply following in the grand tradition of Gypsy Rose Lee, Blaze Starr, Lilly St. Cyr—the great exotic dancers of the modern era. But at the time no such musings came to me. “Good God up in heaven,” I whispered. Eventually I noticed that I’d set my grocery bags down on the macadam. Without enthusiasm, I picked them up and carried them to my truck. * * * |
Sweet To Taste
- August 13th, 2010
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She telephones him at work. He knows it’s her as the LCD panel on his phone displays their home number. He contemplates not answering, and then winces as he reaches out for the handset.
“What time will you be home tonight?” He can hear the tension behind her words. He’s been late home most nights for more than a month. After a week, he could see that it was trying her patience. After three weeks, she’d asked him if he was having an affair, braced him across the breakfast table on one of those rare occasions they’d managed to sat down to eat together.
He wasn’t cheating on her, though. He didn’t have the energy to think about being unfaithful, let alone perform the actual deed. He wasn’t even masturbating. No, his work is incessant, draining him for twelve or fourteen hours a day, a mere ten if he is fortunate. He can’t recall the last time he’s even thought about sex. Diana had tried inspiring his interest, on both sides of her breakfast fidelity challenge, but his responses had been perfunctory at best, and Diana had fortunately had the good taste not to press the matter and humiliate them both.
He checks his wristwatch. “I’ll be home for seven.”
“You promised that last night.”
He closes his eyes. “I know I did. I really will be home for seven tonight, though.”
There’s a heavy silence. “You’d better be. I’m going to a lot of trouble for dinner.”
“I’ll be there on time. I promise.”
“I hope so.”
“Love you.” She doesn’t return the sentiment. Instead, he only hears the click as she replaces the handset on the cradle.
He closes his eyes again and sighs.
* * * * * * *
Scarlett Johansson
- August 12th, 2010
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I've got something she can snack on...
So Sexy...
Tasty Sweets...
A Collision of Desires
- August 11th, 2010
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“You’re certain about this?” he asks her.
She swallows, then nods once, slowly yet decisively.
He motions towards the closed hotel room door. “You know that you can leave at any time?”
“Yes.”
“But you don’t want to, do you?”
“No.” There’s a slight tremor in her voice. He doesn’t read it as fear, though, but as anticipation. Hearing it makes his cock swell within his trousers.
“Take off your dress,” he tells her.
Her eyes flicker away shyly as she stands up from the bed and begins unbuttoning her dress down the length of its front. As she starts to open the dress, her eyes find their way back to his. There’s a look of brazenness in her stare as she peels the two halves apart and then slips the thin cotton from her shoulders and allows it to slide to the carpeted floor.
I’m beautiful, her gaze seems to say to him. I dare you to find me otherwise.
He smiles at her haughtiness, even though it is well merited. He knows that there is a part of him that will take pleasure in bringing that haughtiness to heel, the part of him that sees her as an exquisite Arabian mare, waiting to experience and respond to the skill of his velvet hands and his steel thighs.
He regards her carefully. She is tall and lithe, her limbs long and slender, her breasts beautifully firm, deliciously petite. Her skin is flawless, pale, inches shy of alabaster. It makes the contrast of her black lingerie — brassiere, panties, garter belt and stockings — even more stark. The shock of dark, tousled curls lends her face an almost elfin appearance. In the flesh, she is even more wondrous to behold than she is in her photographs, just as he always knew she would be. Looking at her as she stands just a few feet away from him stirs his voyeur’s blood in a way that it hasn’t been in longer than he cares to admit. He realises that he could happily sit and look at her, sip aged malt whisky and allow his eyes to roam over her exquisiteness for an age.
But this glorious femme fatale standing before him hasn’t travelled this vast distance simply to be worshipped in so passive a fashion.
“Turn around,” he says. She hesitates for a second and then she complies, standing with her back to him, her arms at her sides.
Again, his gaze explores her lissom form. The black lines of her lingerie, drawn tight across her perfect skin, whip at his senses. He wants to trace each one of them, to run a single finger along them all, one at a time. There’s something about this woman that makes him want, makes him need to linger. She fills his attention so completely, even the air surrounding her seems distorted, as though her presence in this rented room is bending time and space itself.
He shakes his head to clear his thoughts.
“You are a very beautiful woman,” he tells her.
“Thank you.” The slight tremor is still there in her voice. He can see that she is trembling gently. The long heels on her shoes raise her rear so temptingly. The combination stiffens him further, makes the beast inside him growl rapaciously.
“Do you like me looking at you?”
She nods.
“Say it.”
“I like you looking at me. I like it a lot.”
“That’s part of the reason why you share your photographs with the world, isn’t it? You enjoy the attention.”
A slight pause. “Yes.”
“The adoration.”
“Yes.”
“The desire of all those strangers.”
“Yes.”
“Does it fulfill you?”
Another pause. “It … it fulfills a part of me.”
He smiles. “And what fulfills the rest of you, Elizabeth?”
She swallows. “The blending of heat. The merging of flesh, of desire.”
“And that’s why you’re here. That’s what you want now. The blending of our heat … the merging of our flesh … of our desire.”
She stands shivering in silence for long seconds. When she finally speaks, her voice is little more than a whisper.
“Yes. God, yes. Please.”
Décadence
- August 10th, 2010
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She telephones him from work. Her hand quivers with excitement as she presses her iPhone against her ear.
“I have a special treat for you,” she says. “A very special treat.”
“Really?” She can hear the intrigue in his voice. “What is it?”
“You’re not going to find out that easily, Sir.”
“So when am I going to find out?”
“Today. This evening, to be precise.”
He sighs. “I can’t tonight.”
“Oh yes, you can.” She allows a modicum of her disappointment and her fury to reveal itself in her voice. “I’ve taken time and gone to great expense to do this for you.” She pauses. “This invitation’s good for one night only.”
His heavy sigh makes her fury rise further, but then he says, “What time?”
“Nine.”
“Can we make it eight?”
She pauses. “Eight it is.”
“Where?”
“The apartment. He’s gone away on business for the week.”
“I’ll see you at eight, then,” he says.
She presses the ‘End Call’ button, and smiles.
The doorbell rings at seven fifty-nine. He’s always punctual for her. The very first time he was late to meet her, she made it clear what would happen if he disappointed her again. He’s never been late since.
She opens the door to him and kisses him lightly while he’s still in the doorway. He glances nervously behind himself when she steps back.
“Afraid?” she asks.
“Just a little surprised. You’re normally so … circumspect.”
She pushes the door closed and locks it. “I’m feeling audacious.”
“It’s showing.”
She laughs. She’s wearing a silk jacquard halter-neck shirt-dress by Karen Millen. She catches sight of herself as she crosses the lounge to the drinks cabinet. The brown looks very good against her lightly tanned legs and arms.
“What would you like to drink?” she asks.
He puts his briefcase down by the front door and follows her into the room. “Surprise me.”
“How about a glass of Romanée-Conti?” she says, keeping her voice light and casual.
“What?”
His surprised reaction pleases her. She turns towards him, holding the bottle she had opened thirty minutes earlier.
“I bought it for you,” she says coyly. “It’s the 2002.”
“For me?”
She nods gracefully.
“But it…” He shakes his head. “It must have cost you hundreds.”
“I did tell you that I had a special treat for you.”
“Yes, but I never imagined…” He shakes his head again. She smiles contentedly. She’s never used his love of wine against him before, and she’s pleased with the effect. One for the future.
“Why don’t you sit down?”
He slumps down into the leather Chesterfield.
“You look like you could use a drink,” she says.
“That I could.”
“Good.” She carries the bottle and a single glass over and sets them down on the low table between them. She stands before him, hands on her hips, looking down at him with the same contented smile.
He looks at the table, then at her quizzically.
“Only one glass?”
“You won’t need one tonight.” She undoes the tie belt at her waist. After she purchased the dress, she had her favourite seamstress alter it slightly, and now it opens completely along its front. She pulls the two halves apart, revealing that she is utterly nude beneath.
Friction
- August 10th, 2010
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Bound and Helpless, the rope itches and irritates her, chafes and burns. She wants that, though; wants to be uncomfortable while she is helpless.
He’d told her that if he washed the hemp rope a few times first, the fibres would soften, become much more pliable. She told him not to bother. She wanted it to feel harsh. She wanted to maximise the sensations coursing through her body.
He’d left the rope unwashed. It started to prickle her skin the moment he first pressed it against her, the scratchiness increasing with every coil he wound around her bare flesh.
She adores it.
Fitted wardrobes line the length of one wall, each sliding door a highly polished mirror. The arrangement doubles the room’s dimensions. She settles the right side of her face against the clean-smelling bedclothes and regards her doppelgänger. She is entirely naked except for fishnet stockings with deep lace tops. She is on her knees, face down, her arse raised high, invitingly. She doesn’t need to see him to know that his gaze is riveted to her sex. She can feel his eyes searing her flesh. The hemp has been wound about her neck and her torso, around her breasts like a poor imitation of a brassiere, and then around her wrists which are secured against the small of her back. There is hardly any play in the rope. He is skilled, just as he’d promised in his advert, in all the emails they’ve exchanged.
She watches as her captor removes his clothes. He takes his time. She approves of his patience, even though her cunt is already wet with desire, even though she is desperate to feel the stranger fingering her roughly, to feel his thick cock thrusting into her, invading her. Naked, he is powerfully built, a thick matt of hair covering his chest and his abdomen. He is not the type of man she would choose ordinarily. His worker’s hands are leathery and calloused, his body smelling faintly of machinery and dark oil. When he speaks, his voice is gravelly, his language unsophisticated. The rawness of his masculinity makes her tremble with anticipation.
Oh, fuck me! she implores him silently, willing him to see her desire, her need. Take me. Use me.
The stranger stands close behind her, looking at her rear as he starts to stroke his stiffening shaft. She can see his reflection’s feverishness. He is uncircumcised, and he rolls his foreskin back and forth languidly. She can see that he is as big as he’d claimed, perhaps even bigger. She feels herself becoming even wetter.
“You’re excited,” he says. He doesn’t phrase the words as a question.
“Yes.”
“Your cunt is wet already. It wants my cock.”
“Yes.”
She watches as he reaches towards her and then shudders as his strong fingers find her labia, as they skirt across the nub of her clitoris. Suddenly, she flashes on just how vulnerable she is: bound and naked, at the mercy of a man who is all but a complete stranger, in an apartment she has rented for the day in a false name and with a cash payment. Her fear and desire blend, become indivisible, become one.
Euro Trip Flash
- August 10th, 2010
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A quick titty flash is probably the best part of the movie. I know this would make it much more likely for me to respond to a hitchhiker…
