Love your KT

Red. Week after week that colour taunted me. 

The way his tight, firm buns of steel moulded to the elasticised material that hugged his delicious man meat. I drooled. I was desperately in need of a bib. But all I do was discreetly cup my mouth and wipe the evidence of my lusting for the God that sauntered in front of me. 

The woman beside me watched as I sat, typing a million miles a minute, the words of Asstard and Pissgirl, tsking at what she perceived correctly to be sinful pleasures that would have me sent to the deepest, darkest pits of Hell if she had her way. But I was not to be deterred. Porn was my life, and I had fangirls chomping at the bit waiting for the next installment in the life of my characters. 

Averting my eyes from the salacious words dominating the screen of my Mac, I took him in again. 

Red. Lean. Hot. French. 

Damn him!

It was his frenchness that did it. The way his strong jaw took command and presented the world with his sexy accent. The husky, gruff timbre that made me consider taking a spare change of panties to every gymnastics class. The way his Adam's apple moved up and down in his long, manly throat when he spoke to the annoying little children whose presence prevented me from walking over and dry humping his leg like a dog in heat. 

Oh what am I thinking?! I'm Kiya. I don't dry hump. I pounce and fuck... hard. 

An annoying sound permeated my reverie. Looking around to discover what dared distract me from drinking in the hottie stretching and gyrating in front of me, I noticed it was my finger pressing down hard on the 'delete' key. 

All my words... my pervalicous words were gone. 

The bible bashing woman seated to my left snickered at my apparent dismay. If she had her way, I'd probably be given a lifetime's worth of Hail Marys. The desire to show her exactly what it was I was up to while we sat we once a week while our children practiced their extra curricular sporting endeavors churned within me. My imaginings of her sprinting from the hall, covering her eyes from the blasphemous evil done to them tore me momentarily from His Delectable Hotness.

Glancing back at my computer, the screen bereft of words, I was at loggerheads with myself about whether to start once again, or put aside the next installment in order to spend the remaining time gawking at French.

My loquacious self demanded I start again, but my nether regions had other plans. They wanted to perv. And the lady bits always won. Crossing my legs, it was evident that my bits had been perving for some time already. And they were well versed in hot. 

His legs, with their generous but not 40 Year Old Virgin amount of hair, flexed as he demonstrated to a little girl how to perform a particular move. I was transfixed by the way he commanded the floor; the way his body never faulted when bending in some awkward angle. Instantly my mind went straight to gutter imagining the way he'd move in his dirty tango with me. The way his broad shoulders would draw back, his arms enveloping me, holding me against his taut body. 

The way his fingers would dance lightly from my neck, down my décolletage, between the channel of breasts. I could hear his voice speaking softly into my ear in that deep voice that spoke of all the debauched things he would like to do to me... at least that's what I imagined he was saying. It was the French he was whispering that prevented me from knowing exactly. 

I could feel myself getting all warm and tingly. My panties were copping the full force of his Tour de Kiya.

His hands gripped my hips, pulling me closer against him... all of him. I moved my own hand along his chest to where I could feel the smattering of hair that would lead me to my final destination. 

A piercing shriek sound perfused the room, discordant to the raunchy wanting sounds I was hoping to glean from him in mere moments. Looking around to see who dared interrupt the earth-shattering sex that was about to take place, I saw him, French blowing his whistle. The end of the class. 

Rising from my sex hazed stupor, I picked up my things and descended the bleachers waiting for the boys to finish up. Kiya was off and Mummy was back on. 

Two exhausted but exhilarated boys ran over to me, yammering on about their lesson. I ummed and ahhed in all the right places, still stunned from the lascivious images that were burned into my mind. Turning for the door, I heard French call out to Special K, something about a job well done. As I watched my boys happily wave at His Delectable Hotness, I nearly tripped over myself when I caught him winking at me.

Drinking in his fuckhot body once more, my eyes traveled south and caught a glimpse of a very prominent bulge making its presence known. French was sporting wood. Raising my eyes to meet his, I heard him call out, "Maybe next time I'll teach you how to climb my Eiffel Tower."

HAPPY BIRTHDAY GQ!!!
I hope you've had a fucktastic day. That was my ode to you, on your speshul day. I have high hopes that by writing this, you'll snag some freebie five time with French. GK won't mind, I'm sure. And when it does happen, don't forget to let me know about it. I want to know ALL the deets *wink*.
Love you always and furever, bb. TACKLEHUGS.

LOVE YOU, BB.