Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
“Let me off here,” Lynn said quietly.Dutifully, I pulled over the SUV. The afternoon Tennessee sun baked the dusty asphalt and brightened the lush greenery to either side. But to me, there was a darkness around Lynn, as if she were fading into the coming night.”Are you sure?” I asked softly.”Yes.” She got out, pulling that ridiculous case out of the back seat.I gave her one last look: a thin young woman, just 5’3″ and 105 pounds. Her low-waisted, destroyed cut-offs revealed lean, tanned legs, naked down to her wedgie sandals. A short white tee teasingly flounced over an equally tan waist devoid of fat. A firm bra made the tee tent out invitingly, beautifully framed by her ass-length blonde hair. She adjusted her shades, bangles and necklace; then gave me a little wave.Habitually dutiful, I obeyed the unspoken command and drove away, leaving her there with that antique suitcase. Driving back to the motel, in my mind’s eye I saw her there, thumb out, stepping into the road for each passing car. I knew she would find a way to turn down kindly women, harmless old men and silly teenagers. She would look for single men with gimme caps and dirty shirts; the kind who’d talk to her tits and crotch.She’d pick a dangerous one who’d say “Git’n” first, and ask “Where?” later, if at all.I almost drove through the only light in town because I had to wipe my eyes. At the motel parking lot, I opened up the floor cargo, and took the two matt-black cases to the motel room. I looked sadly at the two other suitcases still in the closet, and sat down at my laptop on the desk.I tried to re-edit my story from the interviews two days ago in Atlanta, but my mind kept wandering. I tried to get inspired by the lesbian site where I contributed, but no cute ideas or snarky rejoinders came to mind. Instead, she did.* * * *I remembered two days ago, Lynn with me in Atlanta. How she’d get up early each morning, just like every other day, and spend hours doing her morning dance. She once explained that it was Jujutsu combined with Tai Chi. She could have called it Tchaikovsky to Çukurambar escort bayan me. It was graceful, exquisite, awesome. Sometimes blindingly fast, but mostly slow, every limb perfectly controlled. Lynn moved like liquid gold, hair swaying as legs bent and spun, arms cocked and tilted in odd but attractive ways. It wasn’t a martial art – it was pure beauty in motion.I knew fitness. I visited the gym myself, trying to keep my Army Strong bod in shape. With an Armored Division shoulder tat, I got respect. It didn’t hurt to be 5’10” and 165 pounds of muscle with kinked hair shorter than Halle Berry as Jinx. I sensed the guys wondering if they could be James Bond to my Jinx. To them I was always polite and distant. I was friendlier with the girls, of course, but never on the make. I already had a woman far beyond my dreams.That night in Atlanta, when I returned from the interviews and megabytes of sound bites, Lynn was waiting, ready for dinner. We found a small, family Chinese place. She was too excited to politely listen to my stories first. She talked about the dojos she’d visited, the sparring matches she’d had. I didn’t really follow the terminology. It was clear that once again, older, vastly experienced masters had been floored, figuratively as well as literally.I knew the scene. I had gone with her a few times. I’d watched them start polite, suggesting that perhaps she might wish to work with one of their pupils. Each time, after a succession of pupils, the master himself would stand before her. They would bow and she’d dance with him. Nobody could touch her except where and when she wanted. Those touches often led to either his embarrassing fall, or a blinding flurry that ended with mutual bows and a modest smile on Lynn’s face. Just as inevitably, there was a polite invitation into the office, a request for her to teach, which she would just as politely decline. After additional bows and signs of mutual respect, we would leave. I was the big black lug, tagging along with the tiny blonde master Escort demetevler dancer.”I got a partnership offer today,” Lynn had explained. “Imagine, me at 25, a partner in the most respected dojo in Georgia.””Did you take it?” I asked, my fearful inner sub peeking out.Lynn had laughed, “Oh, of course not. I’m totally content. We make a great team.”I smiled thankfully. “Do I need to spill this soup on you to prove it?”Lynn gave me a calculating dom look. “You’re a bad girl for just thinking that!”The conversation moved on to my day, my interviews, which always seemed to interest her. But I knew that wheels were turning in both our minds as we considered what might happen later in the evening.* * * *Yes, I admit it. I have a secret kinky side that opens up to butch women. I think that was part of my decision to join the Army before going to Yale. After college I settled in NYC to make a rep as reporter. At a lez dive bar, her in a leather vest, me in a miniskirt, Lynn made eye contact with my inner sub.That first night, at my place, she prowled my bedroom like a tigress, demanding why I had ball gags, cuffs, spreaders, and all the rest. I still remember being naked, mouth firmly gagged, locked ankle and wrist onto a bar. I was putty in her hands. Although half again her size, but she could flip me around effortlessly. She kept me on the edge for hours, and it seemed like I came for hours more.The next few times were just as good. I was the willing orchestra that she conducted. We went to dinner, her in a suit, me in my backless halter dress with high slits on both sides. At dinner she insisted I give her my panties, right there at the table. “That little side string peeking through the slits is distracting.”After pocketing my panties, as she spent the meal describing my naked body and all the kinds of coming someday. My thighs were squishy with desire by the time we got home. Inside the door, she undid the halter’s top tie and the whole dress slithered to the floor. I spent the rest of the evening in dikmen escort just heels, an armbinder, hard nipples and a hot pussy. She had me worshipping her clit. Then she bent me over the table, filling me with a butt plug and strap-on while I screamed out orgasms into a thick leather gag. That night she stayed for breakfast. In the morning I watched her dance for the first time.Lynn was the perfect dom to my sub. Her pussy was the most delicious in the whole world, especially when she squeezed my head between her thighs. She was also open-minded. She even rode my Sybian once, because she wanted to see how the other half lived. Her judgment: “I like your mouth better.”She moved in the next week. No U-Haul was needed. Lynn only had a few bags and even less dishware than me. But she did have that battered old suitcase, which she kept like a talisman. She lived for her art: her dancing. Gradually, I discovered that she was a legend in New York dojos. In those circles, she was accorded the respect of an international celebrity. She was polite with all while teaching here and there to make money. Her trash talk was reserved for lez bars, needy subs, and arrogant street punks.It took a while to discover her prior life.”Jujutsu, and later Tai Chi, was all I had back in Kansas,” she explained.”It was just me and the art. They all laughed at me because I liked both Chinese and Japanese. But they really aren’t that different if you approach them in a certain way…”I learned that she was a state champion in both at 16. That upset her Dad, who told her no more competitions. Her mother, already half dead from cancer, begged her to stop. “You’re a nice girl, not a fighter.”The year after her mom died, Dad found her in bed with a girlfriend. At his first roar, the not-so-wholesome farm girl grabbed her clothes and scampered away. But when he tried to grab Lynn and “shake some sense into her,” he found himself lying on the floor in the corner. He said get out and never come back. She left and never did.She’d bummed her way east via dojos, teaching whenever she needed money. But she didn’t compete. Her Chinese-Japanese fusion “bastardized the purity of the art.” It was unwelcome in competitions where perfection of form was everything. She grew her hair long as a tease – the tiny girl who gave an opponent something to grab.Finally, in New York City, she came into her own.
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32