Color of Leaves

Her cunt was the color of leaves on a wet fall day. Her mouth was the color of ripe apples and her ass was tinged with the setting sun.


But her stockings were the color of midnight and the skin beneath was a star that only shone for me. When she licked her lips she devoured the world, and I had to stick my hands in my pockets to keep them from shaking. Her voice was the color of the sea.


Watching my cock push between her blood orange folds was a kaleidoscope of desire, shifting between the urge to live and the need to expire. When she kissed me it was chocolate. It was salt and caramel. Her kiss was molasses.


Her cunt was the color of leaves on a wet fall day and I was hungry from too many nights alone.

 

-GNY

Dreaming of Me

flip-flops and bikinis are
dreaming of me this summer

there are tanned legs that want to open
around my neck
and push wet sandy cunts against my lips

there are hammocks that are begging
for my ass
and big glasses of booze that want nothing
more than for me to suck them between my lips and
down my throat until there is nothing left.

The sun wants to kiss my head
and my chest.
It wants to feel my cock and my thighs and
it desires to burn me up and down
until I curse it, even as I return for more.

and let’s not talk about the ocean.

-Guy New York
©2013 by The Dirty Gentleman (#621)
quickienewjersey: (link is now here)

Rowr.
©2012 by The Dirty Gentleman (#598)

A Wise Cunt

A friend of mine once told me that the word cunt comes from an old word for witch. 

“In other words, a wise woman,” she said. “It means a woman who knows things, while vagina means something that needs to be filled. It implies incompleteness and emptiness. As if somehow it wasn’t content being alone.”

“I’ve never thought much about it,” I admitted. “Although I know which word sounds better to me.”

“Of course you do. One’s strong and demanding while the other is… technical.”

I lay back against her body and let my fingers trail between her legs. She was still wet and warm, and I twisted small tufts of hair with a gentle tug. She opened her thighs wider and held my hand where it felt best as she groaned into my ear.

“My cunt is wise,” she growled. “And she definitely knows what she wants.”

Guy New York

©2012 The Dirty Gentleman (#439)

Her Eyes and Cunt

Let’s just say I love her and go from there.

It’s the kind of love where I get stupid when she walks into the room—or sends me a text, calls me, walks by, smiles, emails, or generally exists. It’s not because I don’t know what to say or how to behave, it’s that none of that feels even slightly important. All I notice is the blood flowing through my body and the smell of her hair.

I love her so much that I can slap her, fuck her, hold her, walk with her, and untie her in the morning. I can make her coffee and I can listen to her beg to take me into her mouth. We can drink wine on her roof, make each other come with fingers underneath the table, and sleep until we are too hungry to stay in bed. I can kiss her lips, wash her hair, fuck her ass, eat her breakfast, and listen to her sing. I can help her make the bed, and I can spank her until she’s scarlet and crying.

I miss her when she’s gone, rejoice when she appears, and wrap my arms around her in between. I can wash my cum off her breasts with a warm towel, and I can hem her dress.

I love her eyes and the lips of her cunt. I love her laugh and her sighs along with he neck and her mind. I say her name over and over again as she struggles against my strong hands.

Let’s just say I love her and go from there.

Guy New York

©2011 The Dirty Gentleman (#377)
Especially when he lets us play with it.

©2011 The Dirty Gentleman (#377)

Especially when he lets us play with it.

©2011 The Dirty Gentleman (#369)
This was that moment.

©2011 The Dirty Gentleman (#369)

This was that moment.

©2011 The Dirty Gentleman (#365)
And now back to our regularly scheduled smut.

©2011 The Dirty Gentleman (#365)

And now back to our regularly scheduled smut.

©2011 The Dirty Gentleman (#364)
The reason we tear clothes is to show that our desire is more important than our concern. Our want is greater than our worry, and our need is bigger than our pragmatism. We tear things, cut things, and break things, because we need to fuck more than we need to be careful.

©2011 The Dirty Gentleman (#364)

The reason we tear clothes is to show that our desire is more important than our concern. Our want is greater than our worry, and our need is bigger than our pragmatism. We tear things, cut things, and break things, because we need to fuck more than we need to be careful.

©2011 The Dirty Gentleman (#354)
Sometimes, it’s not about the emotion or the subtlety. Sometimes, it’s just about a woman with her hands tied and her cunt open for all to see.

©2011 The Dirty Gentleman (#354)

Sometimes, it’s not about the emotion or the subtlety. Sometimes, it’s just about a woman with her hands tied and her cunt open for all to see.

Roses or Cherries

He pussy does not taste like candy.  It doesn’t taste like strawberries or honey and it in no way resembles a blossoming flower. She calls it her cunt and she rubs it with short strong fingers.

Her breasts are different sizes and her nipples point slightly askew.  She has bumps and an occasional hair, and when she lies on her back they fall flat against her body.  

He neck and her chin are soft and warm, but they do not flow like the lines of a gazelle or dance in perfect symmetry. 

Her ass has never stopped trains or caused traffic jams.  There are no poems written about its firmness and no songs praise its shape and form. When I run my hand over her skin I can feel the soft translucent hairs beneath my fingers.

Her lips are not roses or cherries, and I can never decide if I love her more than I want her or if it’s the other way around.

Guy New York