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The Geek Goddess

Admit it; you've always wanted those soft pale lips wrapped around the stretching swell of your manhood, her tangled nest of kinky red hair spilling onto your chest, her bone-white skin pressed firm against you. Her tiny pink nipples, hard and sharp as needles, scraping your legs, your belly, your chest as she rises to mount you.

She is The Naughty Librarian, that rare breed of jungle cat known to inhabit the feverish fantasies of dorky adolescent boys everywhere. And she wants to ride your diamond-stiff dick until the mischievous tickle inside her soft flower erupts into an unhinged sputter, until her bright blue eyes reach for the back of her skull, until her mousy chirps deepen into raspy growls that give voice to every inner passion left unexplored. Beneath this delicate bird roars a lioness that seeks unleashing.

But for now there is only the faint trace of an impish grin peeking through the rosy blush of her frail face.

"Um… come with me please," she says.

And you follow her into an empty room, past the book-littered path of her natural habitat. Her choppy steps soon surrender to gazelle-like strides; her hair snaps free from the grip of a ponytail to frame her face, her neck, her shoulders with an unkempt mane of bright crimson.

With the predatory grace of a stalking puma, she turns. Gone is that awkward glance at the floor; her eyes gently rise to greet you, to tease you, to beckon you closer.

"Let me know if you need anything else?" she offered. Was that a promise? A lingering kiss in the ether waiting to be collected and savored?

And was that a purr that brushed past her lips?

She is begging -- without words -- to be taken. She is dangling the key before you, seeking escape from the tyranny of a good girl's life. With an accidental bump of midsections you are back to the blowjob, back to those soft pale lips wrapped around the stretching swell of your manhood. But now her thick-rimmed glasses threaten to tumble from her nose as her bobbing face gains acceleration. She mumbles and gurgles and slurps. She rises and shoves you into a flat-backed surrender, climbing onto the saddle of your bush-ready rod.

Your body reels and shivers from an excess of contact: her hair sweeping down into your face; her hips and thighs squeezing your torso and seeking an angle for entry; the steady rush of her windpipe's sonata on your chest, rising, then falling, then halting altogether as she plants her burning pussy atop your cock.

And with a wiggle of her wiry frame, you are inside her, somehow finding a place that urges from her soft soprano a barely-whispered groan.

She rides without caution, without fear, without hands. She is all snickers and hiccups, girly giggles and "whoops!" as if shocked but impressed by her own reckless riding skills. And when you take hold of her hips to steady this bucking, swaying, gyrating, spiraling drift into chaos, her half-open eyelids flutter like a frightened butterfly. She is somewhere else. She is lilting above the crushing grunt of her world, above the sad life of a bookworm, above the bad choices, above the despair, above the certainty of a life alone. She is floating, murmuring, easing her spine into concavity.

She is lost in a windswept blur and the teasing vibrato of her trailing voice. She quivers herself through one final spurt of unfettered glee before collapsing into your arms, drained, dazed but somehow still shaking. And in this pool of sticky serenity, she is yours.

Or maybe not.

"Um… sorry," she says for the accidental bump of midsections, her ponytail now back in place, her glance one again, aimed at the floor.

"Let me know if you need anything else," she repeats.

Book in hand, you step away, chagrined.

You exit hunched, angled to conceal the tell-tale stretch of your pants. But this pixie-faced maiden of the Dewey decimal system spies it anyway and bites her lower lip as if tasting something a bit meatier -- hinting at what you've suspected and devoutly hoped for: that there is more to this dainty lady than a lust for literature.

The Great Outdoors

Do you ever think of that sweltering outdoor festival two summers ago?

That Godawful grunge band plunking away with a million freaks, punks, drunks, nearly dead hippies and pill-popping zombies swaying in 4/4 time under the punishing sun of an early August evening in North Texas.

Me screaming "Let's get some lemonade!" with my lips brushing the cup of your ear because we couldn't hear shit otherwise, and my heart-shaped booty pressed heard and heavy against your stiffening tool because some beer-guzzling frat boys and bearded bikers had elbowed and pushed and squeezed us all into a big sweaty dancing drunken mess.

So why not venture inside my black leather mini-skirt and caress the sunkissed sweetness of my secret joy until my hips slip into a wiggle that threatens to reveal us as a naughty pair misbehaving in public?

We capture a few wandering eyes amid the crowd, but you don't care.

You simply have to come inside, to sample the soft promise of my tempting curves. With one hand diving into the sea of my red and ready cunt and the other dangling a finger into my mouth, you happily absorb the spastic dance I've drifted into.

And why not unzip yourself to set free that throbbing soldier and let him slide inside the slippery gates of joy, the meat-guarded walls whose tickle sends my spine into an elegant arch and my tell-tale muffled shrieks into the palm of your brick-hard hand?

And why not probe harder and deeper with each angry thrust until my knees buckle and my arms curl back reaching for the hungry demon behind me piercing and poking and bucking and bashing away at the meaty seat of my ample ass and shoving all of me – my shaking limbs, my stuttering moans, my flushed face– into the welcome release of soul-shattering climax?

Do you ever think of that?

This week's confession session:

Here's your chance to share your share past misdeeds of a public and naughty nature.

Any quickies in Burger King bathrooms?
Any roadside romps? Bump and grind sessions behind bushes?

Come on...

How Long?

Until her supple spine mirrored the elegant arch of a windswept palm tree seconds before snapping.

Until every strand of her tangled mess of a mane sprang free from the grip of his rock hard hand, tickling her shoulders and back

sweeping across her flushed face and generously falling onto his.

Until her Sahara-dry throat, once the vessel of fully formed words
now offered only empty monosyllabic moans

only aching pleas aimed at the ceiling before leaking into the hallway and sharing with the befuddled passersby a torture they once knew and now only remember in lonely spurts.

Until the already blurred line between pleasure and pain erased itself
with the dance her hips did without permission and yet somehow in time with the oddly rhythmic shudder of her shoulders

and the taunted jut of her jaw locked onto his collarbone, tightly (too tightly?)

with the maddening slap of their thighs proving a bright percussive soundtrack to this encounter of violently crashing souls.

Until her eyebrows reached for the crown of her sweat-laden head.

Until she recalled that sweet rush of serenity along the walls of the neighbor’s whirlpool

a few feet from Daddy’s disapproving eyes (like he would notice anyway)
and minutes before danceline rehearsal but somehow miles and miles from it all:

miles from the tedious questions about how school was going

miles from her stupid brother and the nerf ball he balanced on his nose like a well-trained seal

miles from Mom and her perfect posture

miles from any sound, any troubling thought, any stupidity anywhere.

Until the unhealthily thin janitor cleared his throat – a subtle warning before unlocking the door and lowering his eyes as if he didn’t see the mad scramble for scattered clothes.

Until it was time to rejoin the others in the conference room.




This week's Humpday confession session:
Okay my sinners, anybody care to confess to salacious episodes of workplace shaggings? Nooners in the copy room? Breathless assignations in the janitor's closet? Caboose-rattling sessions between stuffy boardroom meetings?

Don't be shy...

Greetings all!

Welcome to Saint Satana's confession booth. I'll be your hostess/sensual guru/lapsed Catholic/cruise director through the erotic underworld.

I'm Saint Satana, an architect of spine-tingling, eyebrow-raising erotica and the curator of Saint Satana's confession booth. With the help of my trusted sidekick and partner in literate smut Donnie Magazino I hope to make this blog a captivating place to confess your innermost misdeeds and to pleasure yourself silly while reading about those of your fellow sinners (and, yeah, occasionally mine).

Please remember to keep your arms inside the ride at all times!