Message-ID: <5468eli$9711081319@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: dez187lm@hotmail.com (H.D. Meister) Subject: Story: Monks Three: Rebel Monk - monks002.txt [1/1] Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-ID: <640grl$dka$2@solaris.cc.vt.edu> Greetings from the shadows, dear reader. Here is another offering from what passes as my mind. All standard disclaimers apply. If you are not 18 or live in a community which does not look kindly to adult material, do not read this. Do not make a profit of of my work; it is meant to be viewed FREELY by consenting adults. Archive? Sure... so long as you give credit to the author. _______________________________________________________________________ Perverted Monks: Rebel Monk of Wu Tang By: H.D. Meister I’ve been told that the best way to enjoy a masterpiece is to look at the entire work first. It just so happens that this method is also the best way to look at people. So when someone looks at me, I’m certain that the first word to enter their minds is: wrong. Why that word? Well... consider the picture that they see. I’m a young black man (not African-American, thank you) who tends to dress in an all to 1980’s casual form. Blue jeans... tee shirt... some form of coat... sneakers... baseball cap... Nothing about the picture would seem out of place on you average middle class American white male. Yet one look at the color of my skin tends to set off alarms. Living in the South doesn’t help matters. I was raised in the projects... the ghetto for those not used to the Southern slant to black-speak (ebonics my left nut.) I learned street with true hard heads. I like to think I was a good student. Yet I was vastly different from the stereotype. How so? Well... I thought. I wondered about the why behind almost everything. This was not standard street policy; you just didn’t ask why. If you lived long enough, you figured out why. And as far as sex went... I was a maverick from the start. See... sex was, and still is, a game. It had only one rule: he with the most game won. They are called Players today. Back then, you were called a pimp. I never had game... because I don’t play. The best way to describe the differences is by looking at two similar pictures and spotting the differences. First: a Player. If you have ever been to a bar, you are familiar with the first picture. The Player picks out a woman. For the most part, she’s model quality: air brushed face (with pouting lips. They love their blowjobs.) and a body by Gymnasium. He pimps over to her, smile warm and friendly. His eyes scan her body, looking for tell- tale signs that she’s spoken for. She’s almost always in a group of her friends... not that this bothers a Player; if he fails to get her, he’s got her friends to chose from. Besides... a good night of fucking will worm its way to her ears... and he may still get his way. His lines are practiced, and flow from his lips. The master Players know enough to put a slight hesitation in his words, giving the illusion that he’s not good at it. Soon enough, if he’s successful, she’ll be on her knees, sucking a dick that is not hard because of her skill, but because that’s the way it has to be. They fuck. No emotion... no caring. Now the picture which I tend to paint. I treat women like the treasure that they are. Which means... if they are priceless, then there you go. If they are worthless junk, toss them to the side. Cruel, but I know what I want. Then comes the long and painful process of gaining their trust. Becoming a friend. Notice: no sex. I like spending time with them. For me, the simple closeness of their soul is what I desire. Sure, sex is in the wings, lurking behind the curtain of my imagination, but it stays there. Waiting. When I think that sex is close at hand, I want to know. Why? Does she care about me? How much do I care about her? IF we are friends, will sex change this? Will it destroy our friendship? What happens after the last dregs of passion have dried on our sweat soaked bodies? Now to the good part: the act itself. Players have a set pattern that they never deviate from... unless the woman is more inclined to the wilder aspects of sex (and I have NO idea what those wilder aspects are.) While they fuck, I have sex. For me, the woman comes first (no pun intended.) When I kiss her lips, I want her to know that I care about her, not the fleshy bag of water that gets seen day after day. I don’t maul her body, I pull the passion from within her with gentle touches. Sex is not the end... it’s one leg to be run in the race to know her heart. In black-speak, I’m what’s know as a freak. That means that nothing is forbidden. Players call it eating pussy; I call it the most sublime of pleasures. Sliding my tongue just above the moistness of her essence of love does more for me than fucking one thousand tight twats. I suckle on their nubbin, pulling whatever sounds escape from their lungs. Watching their bodies become twisted in pleasure/pain fills me with a sweet power. The nectar which glides across my lips is more intoxicating than a cold forty ounce malt liquor downed quickly and never enjoyed... until the buzz hits. Where Players feel tits and ass, I experience the warmth of her spirit as it radiates through womanly flesh. I let my hands take their time, exploring every hidden recess. Cheeks. Neck. Arms. Thighs... especially thighs. I want her to take her fill of me. If she wants me to fill her, I will. If she wants me to ravage her body, pillaging her as would a gold-fever stricken pirate, I will. And no matter what she wants (within reason. Pain is DEFINITELY OUT,) I will know pleasure. Yes... I will know pleasure, but I will never be satisfied. A Player’s hope is to have a woman pass out from his fucking. I want to watch her drown in pleasure... no matter what form I happen to be providing. I want her to sleep, dreaming of the pleasure which I offered to her. And I never stand over her body like a barbarian does over his fallen foe’s twisted, gutted corpse. I lay beside them, giving my warmth to her as the fires within her slowly fade. The actual act, to me, is almost dull. No matter the positions, it’s all just “tab a, slot b” routine. And make no mistake, I said positions. Any one which does not cause a severe amount of pain is totally within my limits. I still marvel when I see a woman’s eyes light up as I go from this position to that one... without removing myself from the clutches of her love. As I did for my hands, I allow my manhood to explore the totality of her depths. No corner... no wall, will escape it’s scrutiny. Standing. Sitting. Even if I know release, there will be none for her. Off with one condom, on with another, and the exploration continues. I sweat. I groan. I moan. Yet... it simply doesn’t please me. The glow from her body. The liquid lust shining on her lips. The trembling muscles as they fight for control. THAT pleases me, for I know that I am pleasing them. Players don’t care. All they want is the pussy... and the rep. When it’s over, I wait. I would see the look in their eyes. I want to know that they remember not me, but the pleasure. If they do, then I have gained more than a rep... I have gained much more. There are no words to even begin to describe what I have gained, although Players have a word for it: feenin’. Think of a drug addict... just one fingernail away from the next fix. Now imagine that this is their torment in Hell. Feenin’. In some way, I want this... but I am not the source of their fix. Pleasure is their drug of choice. The kind of pleasure which stretches well beyond the encounter. A rebel. That is what I am. I learn from others, twist this knowledge until it suits who and what I am, and use it. I have not know the company of many women, but those I have known still remember. Maybe it’s the softness of a kiss. Perhaps it’s the pleasure of our union. I know not, and really don’t care. For when all is said and done, they REMEMBER. I have pleased them. More... they are satisfied. Am I a Player in a gentleman’s suit? I leave that up to the women who have no respect for their bodies and the Players. I know what I am. I know who I am. I know what I want. I know what I desire. And I know the difference. -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us | | Archive site +--------------------+------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | \ .../assm/faq.html> /