0 comments/ 16621 views/ 1 favorites Sight Unseen By: standingstones Have you ever spoke to someone on the telephone and wondered what they were really like? My name is Justin and practically every day I talk to a woman named Diana, in our company's office one hundred miles away. Diana has this sweet, sultry voice that makes you want to melt when you hear it. I finally got my chance when I had to attend a meeting at her office. I called her and asked if she was going to be in that day. She said she was. I told her I had a few minutes between meetings and I might try to stop by and introduce myself. When I arrived I went directly to find her. I have to admit I was excited. Would this be a big letdown or would Diana be what I had fantasized about all these months? I went into the office area and asked someone where Diana sat. When I found her desk, my eyes nearly bugged out. Diana was very cute, she had long blonde hair, and was shapely. That voice was so much better in person. I thought Diana was attracted to me also, but who could say? I had fifteen minutes to talk, and then I had to go to a dull and boring meeting. On my drive back home, all I could think of was this woman. I felt like a high school kid on his first date. Did she really like me? The next day at the office, I received a call from Diana. She wanted to know if I had any plans for this weekend coming up. I had none whatsoever, and even if I did, I would have dropped them. she invited me back down so that we might meet at a coffee shop and have more time to chat. She gave directions to the coffee shop and she said she would meet me in the parking lot. I drove down that Saturday morning and as I pulled in Diana flagged me from her car. She motioned me to follow her. She pulled out of the parking lot and I folllowed her directly across the street. Where we pulled in was at a motel. She got out of her car and told me to follow her once more. We went inside and walk down the hallway, when Diana produced a key and opened a room door. I had no idea what she was up to. I went into the room after her. "What do you think, Justin?" Diana asked. Directly in front of us was a king-sized bed. Diana proceeded to undress in front of me. To say I was shocked was an understatement! She undid all her clothes and then began to remove my things. In a few minutes we were both naked. Everything I had dreamed about was true. Diana had large breasts with large egg shaped nipples. She was shaved bald between her legs. I can tell you now, my cock was already beginning to get hard. She pulled me down to the bed and I landed right on top of her. Our bodies were glued together as I kissed her mouth, then I began kissing those nips until they were rock hard. My cock was pressed against her stomach as we were rocking about on the bed. Somehow, Diana managed to flip me onto my back. She then got on top of me. My cock was riding up the crack of her ass. She began to grind back on me, causing all that friction to make me even harder than I thought possible. I was looking up at those magnificent tits. I had to reach up and massage them both. Diana took this as time to begin. She lifted herself up, directly over the tip of my cock. She got herself positioned, then she sank down on me. I think we both let out a moan as I felt my cock go sliding in all the way. I was in to the hilt. Diana did most of the work. She rode up and down my erection, as I held her asscheeks. She was coming down so hard on my cock, her tits were making a slapping sound against her chest. Diana was wet, but she was also clamping down hard on my rod. "Fuck me hard Justin, I won't break!" Diana was beckoning to me. I was lifting my ass up off the bed, pumping as deep as I knew how. The bed was squeaking as we gave it quite a workout. "Please Justin, don't hold back on me, I want your cum!" Diana was practically screaming at me now. She was bound and determined to take my seed. She reached back and squeezed my sacs. That did it for me, I blew wads of my cream all the way into her belly. My cock and balls were slapping against her now, when she came. Diana was loud in bed, she made noises I never heard from any women before. She squealed for me to keep fucking her, to keep cumming in her pussy. I let her milk out all my seed with her tight muscles. Soon I was spent and my cock slipped out. Diana was leaking all our love juices onto my crotch. That had to be the hottest lovemaking I ever experienced! We lie there for a long time, trying to catch our breaths. Diana then made a confession. When she saw me that day at the office, she knew she hit paydirt. She decided she had to have me, so she went for it, and invited me back down. Little did I know she had a plan all worked out to capture me! We both went into bathroom and showered together. I took her a second time, there in the shower stall. My cock was getting raw, but Diana still wanted more of me. As the water was splashing us both in the shower, Diana went down on me. She sure sucked a mean cock. She deep throated my entire length, never gagging once. I held the back of her head and fed every inch into her mouth. She just seemed greedy for cock. I blew my last load for awhile, and she drank it all down. After toweling off, we spent the rest of that day talking in bed. There was no way I was letting this woman get out of my sights. After napping awhile, we made love throughout the night, into the following morning. It was hard to believe, but Diana had me totally fucked out, pooped. We made plans to get together the next weekend, but for now I had to go back home and rest! Sight Unseen "People do not see that at which they look." Professor Emile had just projected a series of ten young female nudes upon the screen. Asking us to study them carefully, he'd left each enlarged photograph on display for three minutes, treating us, for half an hour, to these magnificent images of feminine pulchritude. "You'd be surprised at how much a person, in looking, overlooks," he contended now, as he distributed a timed multiple-choice quiz, consisting of ten questions, each of which was worth a possible ten points, concerning the last image he'd projected onto the screen, the one he'd just clicked past so that, now, a redheaded young woman was displayed in place of the blonde whose photograph had occupied the place of honor a mere few moments ago. We'd have five minutes to complete the quiz, he informed us, whereupon he'd call "Time!" and we were to set our pencils aside. I wrote my name, "Arthur Huggins," in the quiz's upper left corner and smiled as I read the first question: "What color is the model's hair?" There were four choices, identified by the letters "A" through "D": "Black," "Blonde," "Brown," and "Red," respectively. What an absurdly simple quiz! I thought I circled "B" and read the second question: "What color are the clouds?" Clouds? Who the hell had been worried about clouds when a naked woman filled up a screen ten feet tall by six feet wide? I studied the choices: "A. Black. B. Pink. C. White. D. Yellow." Fuck! I couldn't even remember whether there had been any clouds, but, apparently, there had been, because the "D" distracter didn't exclude them with a "None of the above" option. My pen, poised over "A," hesitated, wavered. Inwardly, I shrugged, circling "C" as the most likely possibility. The third question was even harder: "For the sake of contrast, the model is placed beside which texture?" None of the four choices stood out, but I had to decide among these alternatives: "A. Brick wall. B. Outstretched striped towel. C. Tree bark. D. Wooden Fence." Damn! I couldn't remember whether there'd been a wall, a towel, a tree, or a fucking fence in the picture! If Professor Emile would stick to questions about the model, I'd have no problems answering his questions, I thought, as I circled "D," choosing "Wooden fence" for no reason other than that I'd already circled a "B" and a "C" and, somehow, "Brick wall" didn't seem right. It would be hard not to remember a brick wall, I thought, although, really, why would it be any less difficult to recall any of the other objects listed as possible answers to the question? It was unfair of Professor Emile to ask about anything but the naked woman in the photograph, I thought. Hell, what did he expect us to be gawking at, clouds and architectural or landscape features? If he'd stick to the chick, I could score a 100 percent on his asinine quiz, I told myself. Glancing at the quiz, I sighed with relief as I saw that the next question did concern the model. I remembered Professor Emile's declaration. "People do not see that at which they look." It seemed like a challenge. Well, if it was a challenge, I was ready to meet it, now that he was focusing on the naked woman in the picture instead of the photograph's peripheral clutter. The fourth question asked, "What is the model wearing in her hair? A. Barrett. B. Beads. C. Bow. D. Comb." With confidence, I circled "A." The fifth question was even easier, I thought, drawing a circle around the letter "D": "Which word best describes the model's nipples? A. Inverted. B. Large. C. Puffy. D. Small." Question six asked, "Which response most accurately summarizes the model's physique? A. Muscular. B. Short and stocky. C. Tall and slender. D. Top-heavy." I grinned, circling "D." The model had large breasts and narrow hips, so this question was a gimme! I read question seven twice. "Where are the model's hands placed, or positioned? A. In the air. B. At her sides. C. On her hips. D. Over her crotch." I felt a tiny flicker of panic. I couldn't remember where her hands were. I hadn't been studying her freaking hands. I closed my eyes, recalling the image of the beautiful blonde. She was seated. Wasn't she? Or crouching? Could she have been kneeling? By remembering her attitude, or pose, I thought I might also recall the position of her hands, but it was all a blur. Most distinctly, I remembered her magnificent breasts. I'm a tit man, okay? The rest--face and cunt and ass and legs--are sweet, too, but there's nothing finer about a woman than her boobs. I guess I was studying the model's tits more than any other of her charms. I certainly hadn't been focusing on her hands and feet. Feet are Tom O'Malley's fetish. I decided to choose "D," because hands "over her crotch" seemed the sexiest alternative. The questions, it seems, were becoming a bit more challenging, but, as long as Professor Emile continued to restrict himself to the naked woman and didn't start asking about background and peripheral objects in the photograph, I was confident I'd score at least an 80 percent on his quiz. "Which part of the model is not shown in the photograph?" question eight asked, allowing these four choices: "A. Back. B. Buttocks. C. Feet. D. All of the above." Easy! I thought, circling "D." Question nine was also a giveaway: "Which item of jewelry does the model wear? A. Necklace. B. Bracelet. C. Ring. D. All of the above." Again, I chose "D" and thought, Hell, I may get my 80 percent after all. Finally, I'd reached the last question on the quiz: "Which answer best describes the model's penis? A. Fully erect. B. Fully flaccid. C. Semi-erect. D. Non-existent (women don't have male genitals)." Penis? Had I read the fucking question right? I reread it. Twice. Sure enough, the word was there. I snickered. What the hell was this, a trick question? I wondered. If so, Professor Emile sure as hell wasn't going to trick me with it. Confidently, I circled "D," imagining its parenthetical extension to read "chicks don't have dicks" rather than "women don't have male genitals." "Time!" Professor Emile called. Like the rest of the art students, I set my pencil aside, and we passed our completed quizzes forward. After he'd collected them, Professor Emile said, "So you don't die from the suspense of wondering how good--or how poor--an observer you are, let's refresh our memories by taking another look at the model." He clicked the remote-control device in his hand, and the projector cast the image of the blonde bombshell we'd studied prior to the quiz. Tit man that I am, I stared immediately at her breasts. As he read the quiz questions aloud, Professor Emile used a laser pointer to point out the correct answers, in the flesh, as it were. "1. What color is the model's hair?" A yellow dot, surrounded by a crimson areola, projected from the pointer, appeared alongside the model's hair. It was blonde, just as I'd indicated. Score ten points for me, I thought. "2. What color are the clouds?" The yellow dot indicated the wisps of vapor stretched against the azure sky. I'd gone with "white" as the answer, but the clouds were pink. Minus ten. I was at a grand total of zero. Well, my score could only improve, I thought. I'd still manage, before all was said and done, to snag a 70 or 80 percent. "3. For the sake of contrast, the model is placed beside which texture?" I'd indicated a wooden fence, but the laser pointer indicated tree bark. The model was standing beside a tree, and, so smitten had I been with her beauty--especially the beauty of her beautiful boobs--that I literally hadn't seen (or at least didn't remember seeing) the tree for the pulchritude. My score? A minus ten! The laser beam pointed again as Professor Emile read the next question: "4. What is the model wearing in her hair?" I'd answered by circling the letter beside "Barrett," and I closed by eyes with gratitude as I saw the yellow dot appear alongside the pink barrette in milady's blonde locks. I was back to zero. Already, I'd blown all hope of achieving either an 80 or a 70 percent cumulative score, and, with only six questions left to go, I'd need to answer all the rest of them correctly to score a passing grade. "5. Which word best describes the model's nipples?" Tits! I thought. We were back to my area of expertise! I'd get this one right for cure! True enough, as the laser beam pointed out the model's nipples, Professor Emile said, "I think we'd all agree that the model's nipples are best described as 'small,' rather than as 'large,' 'inverted,' or 'puffy.'" I certainly had, which brought the sum total of my score to exactly ten. I must admit, I felt a bit embarrassed at having made such a poor showing, especially with regard to a quiz concerning the charms of a beautiful, naked woman! The outcome of the quiz suddenly took on much greater significance than I'd accorded it previously, now that I saw the chance that I might not pass. A sixty percent success would be awkward; failure would be downright mortifying! I'd become so intent upon the question as to whether I'd pass the freaking quiz that I couldn't remember the fucking questions. I recalled them only as Professor Emile read them aloud, using the laser pointer to indicate their correct responses. Professor Emile continued: "6. Which response most accurately summarizes the model's physique?" To say I was relieved when the pointer's dot of yellow light paused beside the model's breasts before moving to her hips to pause again as Professor Emile said, "Large bust and narrow hips a top-heavy figure makes." I was up to twenty points. Again, I felt a little flutter of panic as the next question was read, because I hadn't been sure of the correct answer and had responded by hazarding a wild guess. If I missed this question, I'd fail the quiz, scoring a humiliating 50 percent. "7. Where are the model's hands placed, or positioned?" I actually felt tears well up in my eyes as the yellow dot illuminated the model's hands, which were clasped, very demurely, I thought, over her crotch, hiding all but a few of the swirling strands of her pubic hair. I'd scored yet another correct response, and my score was now thirty points. Professor Emile read the next question: "8. Which part of the model is not shown in the photograph?" The model, standing next to a rough-barked tree, beneath an azure sky in which pink wisps of clouds were stretched thin, like pulled cotton candy, showed all of her luscious body except those listed as the possible answers for this question, so, by circling "D," for "All of the above," and thereby eliminating her back, buttocks, and feet in one fell swoop, I'd gained another ten points, making my grand total, so far, a solid, if not respectable, forty points. With only two questions left, I could still end up with a dismal 60 percent. Not good, but passing. At this point, I'd take whatever I could get. What was the next question? I couldn't recall. The quiz's contents seemed to have been blotted from my memory by my anxiety about failing the quiz. Only as Professor Emile read them out loud did I recall the questions and my answers to them. The effect was to heighten the suspense to an almost unbearable level. I didn't know what I'd do--or how I'd face the rest of the class--if I actually failed a quiz concerning a beautiful, naked female model. I'd be the laughingstock of the whole fucking Art Department. Were dunce caps still in use, I'd certainly have had to wear one the rest of the semester and maybe even for the two years that intervened between now and my hoped-for graduation date. I was actually perspiring as Professor Emile read the next question: "9. Which item of jewelry does the model wear?" The laser pointer pointed at the necklace, the bracelet, and the ring she wore, and my heart started beating again as I let out my pent-up breath. I'd answered "D. All of the above." My score was now fifty percent. With but one question remaining, I could, if I'd answered it correctly, score a dismal, but passing, grade. I closed my eyes with dread, lest I had missed the question, and heard Professor Emile's voice, seemingly coming from a great distance, through a fog of sound: "10. Which answer best describes the model's penis?" As soon as I heard the question, I breathed a great sigh of relief, tears flowing down my cheeks, for I knew that I'd passed the quiz, after all! The model was 100 percent woman, and, obviously, as the correct answer stated, "women don't have male genitals." I sniggered, thankful for the giveaway question that had saved my ass. I might still be kidded for my dismal score, but it would be good natured, not cruel, and it would pass, not last. Hell, maybe a couple of the co-ed students would even take pity on me and offer to tutor me in the finer points of femininity. A few after-hours sessions with the likes of Brenda or Sue would soon give me the expertise that my terrible quiz score would suggest I lacked. My joy turned to shocked disbelief, however, when the laser beam's yellow dot appeared upon the exposed, pink glans of the diminutive penis that showed, just barely, beneath the long, slender, well-manicured fingernails of the sleek, delicate hands clasped before the model's blonde pubic fuzz. The bitch was a fucking transsexual, I realized, with horror, not a genetic girl--a shemale, instead of a female--and, in answer to the question as to "which answer best describes the model's penis," I'd circled "D. Non-existent (women don't have male genitals)"! As a result, instead of the 60-percent correct score I'd hoped to achieve, I'd ended up with a total score of only 40 percent correct! Having failed a simple, ten-item multiple-choice quiz concerning a beautiful, naked woman--or, actually, a beautiful transwoman--I'd be the laughingstock, for all time, not only of the students and the faculty of the university's Art Department, but also of the whole fucking town! My faint, nervous tittering rose, becoming loud and shrill, and I guffawed uncontrollably, wildly, laughing the laughter of a madman. Professor Emile repeated his earlier dictum, "People do not see that at which they look." Then, as I continued to bray like an ass, he gave me a sharp look of disapproval, adding, "Apparently, Mr. Huggins has a dissenting opinion concerning my observation. Hopefully, his quiz score will prove the truth of his disagreement." Sight Unseen She never sees. Each time her lover blindfolds her a block away. She never sees to which nondescript brick industrial building he takes her. She never sees the stairs down which he leads her, nor the door through which they pass. She never sees whose voice it is that greets them. She never sees the giggling young women who help her from her clothes, each and every last item until she stands in all her naked splendor. She never sees those who admire her, who lust for her, who soon will have her. She never sees. She never sees who takes her from her lover's side. She never sees the rooms to which she's led. She never sees who she's passed to. She never sees who she stands with, whose side she follows obediently at, who she's presented to. She never sees who touches her with such intimate familiarity. She never sees who she's bidden to kneel before, nor to whom she relinquishes herself. She never sees any of the people in this strange, mysterious place. She never sees the apparatuses she's put over, or onto, or into. She never sees the implements used upon her delicate flesh. She never sees those who enjoy her, who have her. She never sees who leaves their essence so deep within her, or their taste upon her lips, or their mark upon her body. She never sees who watches. She never sees. But she knows each one intimately. She knows their lips, their fingers, their passions. She knows each of her mysterious strangers by the sounds of their voices. She knows the feel of their skin, the intimacy of their hands. She knows how they touch her, how they caress her. She knows with but a fleeting touch who has her at any time. She knows the scent of their cologne, of their perfume. She knows their more intimate scents too. She knows their bittersweet tastes, each one slightly different than any other. She knows how they feel beside her in bed, holding her, cradling her. She knows how they feel atop her. She knows the rugged day-old stubble, the strong jaw lines, the gently, perfectly shaped breasts, the smooth-as-a-baby's-bottom pubes. She knows the silky thighs, the flowing tresses, the strong chests and even stronger passions. She knows how they move, how they kiss, how they make love. She knows how they feel within her and upon her. She knows how each takes their pleasure of her body, and how each reciprocates. She knows how they feel in her arms at the peak of their passion. She knows their most intimate secrets, whispered to her as they lie together afterward. She never sees, but she knows each one intimately. She could pass them on the street and she would never know. Here she knows them, but by the light of day she wouldn't have a hope in the world. Who sees her each day and knows, she wonders? Who knows this shy, self-conscious sweet young thing who goes through each day blushing inwardly, for she never knows if the stranger she passes on the street, or in the coffeehouse, or in the library, or in the elevator, knows her the way she knows them? Every man she sees she wonders: does he know her tightness? Does he know her lips, her tongue, her gentle fingers? Does he know how she feels beneath him? Does he know how she grimaces at the peak of her pleasure, and how desperately she writhes whenever her pale bottom is warmed? Every woman she sees she wonders: Is she the one who smells so sweet, who tastes so lovely? Is she the wicked one who likes to tease her all night long, who likes to leave her mark so strongly upon her body that a week later it still lingers? Or is she the one who she's never seen but who she loves with all her heart for how gently she treats her, for how warm her tenderness is, for how she holds her and cradles her and makes love to her? She yearns, she aches. She lusts for the next time her lover will blindfold her and lead her sight unseen into the unknown. For those fleeting moments of blind abandon she lives a life aroused, wondering which smiling stranger she meets has had her, which man or woman she passes on the street recognizes her, which nondescript building she passes by is The One within which she's rent and ravished, and within which she will be again. She doesn't know, but in her mind's eye she sees. It's every one... Every man, every woman, every building. It's her world unseen, to where she yearns to be led again and where in her blindness she'll once more know the passions of her strangers. She won't see, but she'll know. And for that more than anything she aches.