AMATEUR XXX STORIES

-

ALPHABETICAL SEX STORY LISTINGS:

A - B - C - D - E - F - G - H - I - J - K - L - M - N - O - P - Q - R - S - T - U - V - W - X - Y - Z

Pandoras Box

"Pandora's Box"

by Adhara Law

(c) 1998 Adhara Law. All rights reserved. May not be reproduced

without express written permission by the author.



Pandora likes her lipstick the shade and depth of freshly drawn blood. She

applies it slowly, first along the bottom lip, then methodically layering the

heart-shaped peaks on top. She applies a second coat before blotting.

Her hair fawns and preens under the ministrations of her slender fingers until

it has pleased her as thoroughly as it can, sighing happily into loose curls and

shining waves in a bright aureole around her head. I've watched her to see how

she does it, but it's as if her hair has a life of its own and lives only to

please her. My own hair is a dull, limp shade of brown; my eyes, the color of

dried mud.

The first five dresses are, of course, completely unsuitable for the occasion.

The first is too long, not showing enough leg. The second is something she

really should have gotten rid of years ago -- utterly out of style. Finally,

with a happy shriek, she fishes a backless Christian Dior from the murky depths

of the closet. Perfection. It slips over the sharp angles of her bare shoulder

blades and caresses the light curves of her hips as if it were her lover,

dressing her instead of undressing her. A seduction in reverse.

Pandora doesn't go anywhere without making sure that her entrance will be

nothing short of a media spectacle. Tonight it's a local bar. Meticulously

manicured nails -- raw, bloody red, like her lips -- tickle the handle of the

door as she pulls it open and graces the room with her presence. I watch her and

envy her. I don't know how she does it, though I know I should.

I already know that men will stop in mid-sip to stare at her. I know that women

will raise eyebrows, both in jealousy and admiration. I know that Pandora will

take it all and amplify it the way a tuning fork responds to its own frequency

of vibration. This was Pandora's frequency of vibration, this dark box filled

with unspoken lascivious thoughts and eyes staring only at her.

She slides onto a barstool and orders a trendy import beer. Others in the bar

drinking the same thing look fake; I can see the search for acceptance in the

way they lift the bottle to their lips and watch the green triangle of lime bob

in the amber liquid. But not Pandora. Somewhere in the brewery where this beer

was created was a man who put together the hops and barley in such a way as to

please only her. I was sure that it said in fine print on the bottom of the

label, "brewed only for Pandora".

Then he comes in, right on time. Pandora's eyes traverse the hills and valleys

of his sculpted biceps as he slips onto a stool at the far end of the bar from

her, ordering the same beer she's drinking. I've been watching her watch him for

a long time. Tonight she'll stop watching.

Carrying her beer between blood-tipped fingers, a nail teasing the moist neck of

the bottle, she walks over to him. Not purposely -- more like she needs to

stretch her legs and just decides to head in his general direction. She stops at

the stool next to his. "Hi," she says.

"Hi." His eyes travel from head to toe and back again, and not discreetly. It

makes her smile turn up a little higher in the corner of her mouth.

She sits and they talk. It doesn't matter about what; by the end of the night

the conversation will have become irrelevant. I know. I will watch it happen as

I've watched it many nights before. Her legs cross as she traces the mouth of

her beer bottle with the tip of a nail. Her fingers push an unruly lock of hair

over her ear. He stumbles in the middle of a sentence about where he grew up.

Pandora smiles. I watch.

The conversation peters out, a train losing steam; it's time. They don't have to

say what they both know -- it will be her place. Bills are thrown down on the

bar, beers are finished, and both of them get up to leave.

I am there when she unlocks the front door, watching him slip his hands around

her waist and nip at her earlobe as she slides the key into the lock. The door

shuts absent-mindedly behind them as she leads him past the rest of the house to

the bedroom. I am there, too, when she begins pulling the tails of his shirt

from his jeans, breath filling the room in ragged pockets as buttons are popped

and zippers are pulled. He lifts the black silk of her dress over her head and

throws it to the floor, gasping now because she's found what's waiting for her

under the zipper of his jeans. I see his eyes close; I see her wordlessly finish

undressing him and push him roughly to the bed.

Even as I get caught up in the spectacle unfolding in front of me I question her

draw, what it is that makes her the center of her universe. Is it the crimson

lips he's kissing, lips that move down his neck to his chest and nip at the

round peaks of his nipples? Or is it the hips his hands grip tightly now as they

position themselves over him and rock seductively and teasingly against his

thigh?

She plays with him, tickling his ribs with her tongue and watching him gasp for

breath. She moves down, further down, and after a few tense moments, his eyes

pleading with hers, she slips his cock expertly into her mouth and listens to

him groan in almost painful enjoyment. There is an invisible smile. She keeps

him like this, on the verge of coming, enticingly moving her tongue around him

but holding back until she is ready. Pandora loves control.

I watch her move over him and pin him down at the shoulders, staring down at his

helplessness with pure pleasure in her eyes. If he is resisting, I can't tell.

I'm too entranced by Pandora to notice. Like him, I'm trapped by the way she

guides him into her pussy with only her hips, the way she begins fucking him

with slow, circular movements and light pulls upward away from him. The way she

enjoys the power she has over him at this moment. And like him, I'm only

released when she closes her eyes and begins to rock faster, working him into

her as far as he can go, and crying out in little gasps as she comes with no

regard to who sees it.

Later, he leaves with a kiss to her faded lips and the unbinding promise that he

will see her again. And I ask her, as I always do, looking in the mirror: what

is it? She doesn't answer. So I take off the earrings and put them in their box,

wipe the vixen paint off my lips and comb the perfection out of my hair.

Back in your box, Pandora.

----------------------------------------------

I strongly encourage both positive and negative feedback on my stories. Please

write to me, Adhara Law, at adhara_law@hotmail.com and let me know what you

thought of this story.