FREE ESSAY ON SLIM VIRGIN

SLIM VIRGIN

Slim Virgin
There she rested, cradled ever-so-gently between my fingers. I looked her over again, and
she looked as beautiful and satisfying as ever. She was dressed in shrouded white garb
with three gold strips wound tightly around her mid-section. Her body was soft and supple
in the beginning, so I gently positioned her erect before me and packed her tightly. She
held her shape well thrust after thrust, gently at first, then with sensuous and
increasing force. Her bottom was smooth to the touch yet firm when I squeezed it between
my fingers. I slowly moved my nose up and down the length of her tightly wrapped body.
Her fragrance permeated my nostrils with a familiar scent that stimulated every part of
my anatomy. She was ready, resting and waiting, prepared diligently for what was about to
begin. 
Anxiety was mounting, my heart was palpitating, I could feel the rush of emotions already
flowing throughout my limbs. Thoughts of apprehension and anguish filled my mind. I had
promised myself that I would never be found in a situation that such feelings of
temptation would overcome me. I had to be strong. To her, I would be just another set of
lips, to me, it would be another step into oblivion. I could practically taste her as my
mouth began to salivate. I was already there, she was in my hand, and besides I already
paid for her.
Past memories reminded me of the sensations and feelings that filled my body after each
time I sought her out in her darkling abode. A woman of the night, a woman of pleasure, a
woman of demise she was. I had to resist, but her grasp on my soul was firm and
unrelenting. To have her in my hands was a sin; to put her to my mouth was damnation. The
residual stench left on my clothes and body was all too familiar, but it did not matter.
I was an addict in denial. A decision had to be made.
I was not sure if I was strong enough. I had experienced and relished this before, and
the emotions and physical implications that I felt were never as malevolent once it was
over. But I knew what was about to transpire was going to be another step towards my own
inevitable and gradual destruction. 
A few more tantalizing moments past with my eyes firmly fixed on her butt, then my
wavering decision was made. Just one more won't hurt me, it'll be the last time!, I said
to myself. It was a disgusting excuse to justify my own bias resolution. I felt guilt and
blamed myself for my own feeble self-control. I knew it was wrong, but it did not matter
anymore. 
I could feel a lump in my left pocket of my cramped blue-jeans. It had been there ever
since I pulled my mistress into my possession. My left hand slipped gracefully and
skillfully in between the folds of denim until I had a slippery smooth shank grasped
firmly within the palm of my hand. I withdrew slowly and my anticipation grew with every
second that past. I maneuvered the sleek ergonomic piece of transparent plastic in my
left hand with amazing dexterity and efficiency. I needed to spark that fire that lay
dormant within her otherwise tasteless and useless body. With a flick of a thumb I said,
Let there be light, and there was light. My right hand still embraced firmly my fetish
between my fingers. I brought both my hands together before me, and for a brief moment I
paused and eyed thoughtfully both the flame and the shame in both my hands. Then we
finally met. I put her butt firmly between my lips, lit her up, and climaxed in a choking
breath of caustic smoke. In that brief overrated experience, I again realized that I just
danced with the devil.