Shivering from the cold, from your brazenness, I am lost. I thought myself the sexual predator, but you, a panty-ditching, cock-grabbing stranger, have out-alpha'ed my maleness. I'd like to lead this dance, tease a kiss out of you, trace the swelling of your breast and smile arrogantly; but your moment's desire dwarfs my entire sexuality. I shake as you grope me, the ripest melon on the stand. An hour ago you were the abstract design of a woman -- hair, legs, breasts, lips -- and now you grip my private parts in quite concrete fashion. Your thoughts roll from you like a wave of heat -- fuck, fuck, fuck.
There can be no peace until the deal is consummated and the wetness I know to be pooling between your legs is rubbed into my flesh -- a salve for my wounded male ego. I try to speak, but my stuttering cock has my full attention: onward/retreat; onward/retreat. As it busies itself trying to define this situation, I have no use for words.
What kind of superwoman does the dance that you do? How can an angry slash of flesh between soft, wet thighs dominate me so? I am furtive and afraid; I can't let you possess me so thoroughly without firing some kind of broadsides.
I brusquely grab your wrist and take us a little further away from curious eyes. With one hand, I pull your dress down, again. Seeing the strawberry blonde bush rights my cock's direction. It is forward; it is onward. I unzip unconsciously and pull my dick out with some effort. It is stiff and groaning mutely. Your slender hand reaches for it and I slap it away. Never once looking into your eyes, I jack myself off - inches away from your pussy. Your bare ass blocks the view of my labors. 10 seconds pass; now 20. You begin to shiver. Barely two minutes into my masutrbation I spurt onto your pussy hair. I slump and moan quietly.
I look up into your eyes.
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