#cord roberts

[laboulaie]

John Loprieno (Cord) & Kassie DePaiva (Blair) circa 1994

[ljblueteak]

Richard Hamilton Swingeing London 67 poster and Beatles 68 poster

Text from Andrew Wilson's Swingeing London 67

The [Beatles] poster, described by Hamilton as a 'give-away' print, was the result of a fairly complex design process that took about two weeks to complete, with daily visits from Paul McCartney, the one Beatle who worked directly with Hamilton on the project and who had prior knowledge, through[Robert] Fraser, of Hamilton's work--he had earlier bought one of the Solomon R. Guggenheim (1965) screenprints from the 1966 exhibition of the series that he had helped hang.

This relationship gave Hamilton the freedom to develop his idea for the poster and the whole design project without interference from the other band members, Yoko Ono, or the record company.

The poster shows George Harrison, John Lennon, McCartney and Ringo Starr as distinct individuals. This is in sharp contrast to the individual John Kelly portraits, in which the similarities of pose, gaze, and lighting, conforming to the aesthetics of of a record company's publicity department, portray them as members of a band.

The seemingly casual pinboard aesthetic by which these informal photographs were arranged was determined primarily as a solution to crucial design issues (echoing his decision to order the collage for Swingeing London 67--poster as newspaper columns, with headline at top left).

The sheet had to be folded three times in order to be inserted into the square album sleeve, and this obliged Hamilton to approach it as 'a series of subsidiary compositions. The top right and left-hand square are front and back of the folder and and had to independently stand as well as be a double spread together. The bottom four squares can be read independently and as a group of four. They all mate together when opened up and used as wall decoration.'

The top left-hand panel is what is seen first, and it presents the songwriting duo of Lennon and McCartney. Lennon is shown in blue light, singing. The image has probably been taken from a television screen, and the attendant distortion and blue glow are unflattering.

The image of Lennon overlays the bottom right corner of an equally unusual portrait of McCartney in a bathtub, his head half submerged, soapy suds giving him a halo. Running beneath the two portraits is a fabricated contact strip that includes an image of Lennon in front of one of his wall drawings; the band in a recording session...in which they are, unusually, playing brass instruments; and a colour image from the recording of 'Hey Jude' (1968).

This sense of fragmentation, of hidden codes and messages, echoes both the 'guarded privacy and locked rooms' and the 'disturbing, dreamlike darkness' that have been identified in the album, inviting the fan to imagine the band members' private worlds, and hinting at the beginning of the band's disintegration.

The dominant image of the poster's top right panel, opposite Lennon and McCartney, is of George Harrison. This portrait casts him in a mystical, otherworldly and contemplative light, with the right side of his face obscured and out of focus....

There are very few collective photographs of the band: playing in recording sessions or in filmed concerts; with Harold Wilson after they had each received the MBE; and a sequence of them doing the 'business' as they re-sign their contract with EMI.

Instead, the poster emphasizes the individual activities of John, Paul, George and Ringo around the time of the collage. Starr is shown with his co-star from the film Candy (1968), Ewa Aulin, and also dancing with Liz Taylor (wife of his other co-star in the film, Richard Burton). Lennon is shown becoming the working-class hero. Yoko Ono appears just twice: in a self-portrait by Lennon of the naked couple, and in an image of a naked Lennon sitting cross-legged in bed talking on the phone, as its stretched cord cuts her out-of-focus head in two--cancelling her identity.

Of the band, it is McCartney who emerges as the poster's dominant figure. Hamilton has said how The Beatles contains 'arcane touches which only The Beatles' more intimate associates were likely to smile at,' and yet such details--such as the doubled image of a shut door or McCartney 'pole dancing' both naked and clothed--are not at the cost of the poster's legibility. At its centre is the reverse of a photograph, a gift to one of the band, bearing a lipstick imprint and a groupie's imploring words: 'I love you.'

In all this, Hamilton's fundamental aim for The Beatles was that it should reach a large audience and be as accessible as the cover design was remote. This was not a new subject for Hamilton. My Marilyn had already adopted, three years earlier, the motif of the publicity photograph and the manipulation of celebrity image as a subject. What is different here is Hamilton's direct participation in popular culture: The Beatles, like Swingeing London 67--poster, shows him not only constructing work with a subject that revolves around the manipulation and production of pop celebrity imagery, but also inserting these works into the mass circulation of popular culture.

--Andrew Wilson. Bold mine.

[beeftendergroin]

yes, another baby mauler anakin

[contremineur]

There’s a chair in the snow-covered field where I left it, and you, dead now a year, are sitting in it, looking at three crows, their black nearly burning in the morning sun. Thanks for the chair, you say when I make some crack about where will the dead turn up next, unsurprised by your being here. I left it just for you, I say, and maybe I did. And maybe you’re here because I cannot stop loving you, and maybe this is all a dream, but I don’t want to wake up before you answer all those questions I have— not so much about the afterlife, but about the unfairness of things here, in particular who suffers and why, and maybe something about God’s silence—but already you’ve put your fingers to your lips, still looking at the crows, at home in the cold, a little cape of snow warming you. I keep chattering away about the shitty state of the world, listing my complaints as if you were a messenger between my world and the next. But snow is falling through me, as if I were suddenly porous and every boundary had been removed, and I am shining in the light it makes. When I look to you, you are gone and I have not said how much I’ve missed you, nor how, at times, I’ve prayed to you. And whatever peace you brought is interrupted now by fears—how dwarfed I am by the field and the sky filling the empty chair with snow. Then my waking sense of everything missed, and missing again.

Robert Cording, The chair (in ‘Walking with Ruskin: Poems’, CavanKerry Press 2010)

[another-little-hippie]

not me getting stoned and then bawling my eyes out while watching the gladsaxe teen club performance because nobody was “rocking out” for them and they were working so hard… i told my boyfriend that i need to be there, “i would rock out for them!”

[robertpallesen]

Extention Cord, Portland, OR © Robert Pallesen

[noleavestoblow]

"I'd like to say I'm getting by and getting on with life, but the latter is a stretch. A tapeworm of grief has been eating my insides, …"

― Robert Cording

[chicinsilk]

US Vogue July 1986

Monika Schnarre wears a long wool jersey dress (Jasco), by Michael Kors. toque, Patricia Underwood, boots, Donna Karan. Belt used as a collar, Robert Lee Morris, belt, Barry Kieselstein-Cord. Hairdressing, Madeleine Cofano for Bruno Dessange; makeup, Lydia Snyder.

Monika Schnarre porte une robe longue en jersey de laine (Jasco), par Michael Kors. toque, Patricia Underwood, boots, Donna Karan. Ceinture utilisée comme collier, Robert Lee Morris, ceinture, Barry Kieselstein-Cord. Coiffure, Madeleine Cofano pour Bruno Dessange ; maquillage, Lydia Snyder.

Photo Bill King vogue archive

[babyitsmagic]

what are your muse's biggest red flags when it comes to dating?

how would you describe your muse's interior design style?

is your muse hiding something serious from those around them? why?

for Wilder, Yin, aaaaand Sage

Wilder:

"Fucking everything. I don't communicate. I lash out. I'm not even fucking baseline nice. I don't think I have any goddamn green flags, aside from being a good lay." Which had only caused more problems, really. "I have no interior design style. I keep a mountain of books in the house, I never have enough shelves, and I pile shit all over the floor. And at this point? No. I don't think there's anything I haven't had to share whether I liked it or not."

Yin:

"Absolutely none. I'm a flawless partner," he answered, smirking, before adding, "But honestly? Frank conversation isn't my strong suit and for someone not always great at monogamy, I can be quite jealous." Not a good look. "For interior design? Expensive and oh, what's the nice word for it? Maximalist, I suppose? I like nice things and I like having lots of them."

He shrugged. "My secrets are numerous. I'm old. But Cordae knows about Viola and Robert knows about Calla, so I don't think there's anything I'm intentionally hiding at this point."

Sage:

"I'm possessive, controlling, and manipulative. I learned everything I know from Azazel, who's a walking red flag. I try to make sure my apartment isn't a red flag. I don't care what it looks like, but I know an empty, undecorated place is unsettling to most people, so I've got some art work and a couple posters up. Most of my furniture is re-sale shit, which is exactly what someone my age should have." She rolled her eyes. "I'm hiding lots of things all the time. Demon, remember?"

[martyr-eater]

Cemetery Without Crosses (Une corde, un Colt...), 1969

[boxedwinedean]

wacom STILL hasnt delivered my cord so im posting an old piece of art i did of RSL for day one of housevember, its not from house but hope its alright ❤️

[almeriamovies]

“Cemetery Without Crosses“ AKA Une Corde, Un Colt… by  Robert Hossein (1969) The ghost town movie set built in Dunas de Cabo De Gata. #Western #Cinema

[drolesdedalesalbumphoto]

L'épisode "Problèmes de coeur".

[jewellery-box]

Dress, circa 1883-1885, Scotland

Silk, cotton, linen, metal

Description: Woman’s dress in cream corded silk chine printed with abstract floral design in red, blue, brown and yellow, with small, rectangular neckline with facing in pleated red silk satin, fitted bodice constructed in six panels, fastening centre front with red cord lacing through fourteen pairs of eyelets over a stomacher-style panel of horizontal cream machine lace frills. Elbow-length sleeves with pleated red silk satin cuffs. Skirt, full-length, fastening on left with five metal hooks and eyes, chine overskirt pleated into waistline at front and over hips at side, side panels trimmed with vertical border of cream machine lace and frill of cream machine lace extending into lower side edges of train, centre back cut-in-one with bodice with additional width in skirt to go over bustle, extending into a long train, red silk satin frill under hem. Petticoat-style underskirt revealed in front in cream silk satin underskirt decorated with six slightly asymmetrical horizontal rows of cream machine lace. Bodice lined in printed cotton, fitted with eight metal bones and waistband. Skirt front lined with linen and printed cotton, sides and back lined with printed cotton, integral thirteen-inch wire mesh bustle with two sets of twill weave tapes to pull fullness to back to create train, balayeuse around hem of skirt and train. Waistband printed in light green ‘R. Simpson and Sons Costumiers Jamaica St. Corner Glasgow’.

Worn by Ann Smith, the wife of Robert Kirk Simpson of R Simpson and Sons.

This romantic dress is printed with roses and has machine-lace frills on the skirt. In the 1870s and 1880s fashion looked back to the late 1700s, with its flamboyant fabrics, for inspiration. The blurred effect on this evening dress is created by printing the warp prints before the fabric is woven. This ikat technique originated in Asia and was introduced to France in the mid-1700s, where it was known as chiné. Here, it’s use, together with the laced bodice and open over-skirt draped back over the hips and into the bustle, reflect the historical revival style with its imitation of an eighteenth-century open gown.

Glasgow Museums Collection Online

[contremineur]

Boswell’s only note after an evening with Dr Johnson Nothing about the food, the wine, the subjects of that night’s passions. Nothing even about the weather—rain most likely, the damp seeping under doors. Just those two words for a night when everything else slipped into the vacancies of the unrecorded. That’s all that’s left. We know now the more complete story that Boswell chose not to tell: the good doctor’s wearied martyr’s gaze as he walked the alleyways where the poor remained poor, the blind, blind, where the only lesson learned from suffering was how much better it would be not to suffer. We know, too, that Johnson wanted about this time to rest in God and yet could not imagine how to surrender himself to a future he couldn’t anticipate; he couldn’t help but believe, to his dismay, that all life needed to go wrong was the hope it would go right. Too many could not see how evil fouled the gears of the century’s benign God. He was headed for another breakdown; Mrs Thrale had already been secretly entrusted with a padlock and chain to restrain his fits when the time came. But on this particular evening, happiness must have arrived when he least expected it. A few hours when everyone’s burdens were shouldered, when there was no tomorrow sprouting its thousand forms of grief and humiliation and defeat. Just jokes and small talk, and wine sweetened with oranges and sugar tumbling down the doctor’s throat. A night, perhaps, when all the timorous and beaten faces suddenly brightened in their common temple of laughter. A night when even a stray black dog might have been allowed to lick clean a patron’s greasy hands and warm its flea-bitten belly near the fire. A night caught in the genius and irony of Boswell’s two words—what they left unsaid and what they say, the simple phrase like a pardon after our sins have been listened to one by one, and there is nothing left to remember but ‘much laughter’ after another day on earth is done.

Robert Cording, Much laughter (in ‘Common Life: Poems’, CavanKerry Press 2006)

[shamrockqueen]

The summer of 85

Pairing : Robert Pronge x Reader (80s style)

Warnings : R18, Naughty behavior, caught him by surprise, smut, he hates to see you leave but loves watching you go

Word count : 3167

Chris Evans Masterlist

Robert didn’t particularly like this neighborhood, and he certainly didn’t care for the pressed-shirt types that populated it. But, the house wasn’t expensive, and it suited all of his needs. The way he saw it, as long as he kept his distance from all the white picket fence type of people, he’d do just fine.

He was working on a shitbox car in the attached garage—another cheap purchase, but it did just enough to carry him this far. The summer sun was cooking him in the un-air conditioned space, even with the garage door pulled up to allow the occasional breeze to come in.

Robert cursed upon catching his finger on a poorly placed hole near what he was sure was the carburetor. He jerked back, tossing an oily rag back against the ground in a huff before nursing his sore finger.

He tried to take a breather, wiping his clean hand over his neck. Better to clear away the sweat that had built up on his skin before stepping away from the mess. He went into the driveway to catch that bit of breeze that rolled past the house, and it didn’t come alone.

You were riding past the house on your bike, hair blown back in the wind and the sun kissing your exposed skin. It was the first thing that caught his eye, with the last being your cutoff denim shorts tightly hugging your ass.

You had ole Robert turning his head just as you passed his trash bins. It wasn’t until you rolled your pedals back to brake, coming to a solid stop as your shoe hit the pavement. He quickly averted his eyes the second they connected with yours, leaving him to miss the small and mischievous smile that pulled along your lips.

You caught the moment he dared to look back at you, giving him a friendly wave. He stared back for a second, confused by any actual neighborly behavior, let alone from someone like you.

He waved back before you turned away, watching as you kicked back off the road and cycled away. You left him with just the short memory of your shapely figure working over a blue cruiser bicycle.

He tried to clear his mind by putting his focus back on the car, but he never made much progress. He was quickly admitting defeat after an hour of fucking around with it.

Tossing his tools back in their box, he reached for the pull cord to yank the door to the garage closed when he heard a familiar spin of bicycle spokes. He spared a glance out at the road and was surprised by a familiar face.

You were off your bike this time, choosing instead to roll it along the road.

He offered another wave, much like you had upon your first passing, only this time you spoke back to him in return.

“Hello”

Your voice sounded sweet, even airy, and it easily caught Robert off guard. “Uh, hey there.”

“What's your name?” You chirped back.

“Me?” He mouthed back, barely audible. You recognized the gesture all the same.

“Is there someone else in there with you? You laughed.

He scoffs before answering the previous question. “My name’s Robert.”

“Do you have a bike pump, Robert?” You asked.

“What?” It was all he'd given back as a response, somewhat dumbfounded as to why the hell you were even talking to him in the first place.

“Do you..” you began to repeat, only to be cut off midway.

“I heard you; I just…why?” He finally spit out the question. Why?

Why were you smiling at him, battering your lashes in his direction? Why were you even giving him a second glance, let alone asking him for anything?

“My tire went flat.” You say as you roll your bike closer, crossing onto his concrete driveway and overstepping an invisible boundary.

Robert didn’t answer again, standing mostly agast with the garage cord still in between his fingers. He doesn’t know how to talk to gentle young things like you, and he gaped at the absurdity of the conversation like a fish out of water.

“You don’t want to help me, Robert?” You said with a soft pout as you dug the toe of your shoe side to side on the concrete.

He counters back quickly, although his words end up being fumbled. “No…I.” He had to think for a second, “I can help; just give me a second,” and with that, he pushed the garage door back up and turned back to look for the needed bike pump.

You follow him inside, rolling your bike alongside you as he disappears behind the car. It annoyed him a little bit that you didn’t just stay put; in fact, you seemed to linger just a little too closely for his own comfort.

You’re just a peach, and he’s anything but sweet.

Your skin was a little sweaty from your afternoon ride, giving you an unearthly glow. He, on the other hand, felt grungy from the perspiration that stuck to his clothes and hair after working with the car.

He’s digging for anything that resembles a bike pump. He had agreed without thinking about whether he actually had one. Yet, low and behold, just the right item was found buried within some unpacked boxes.

“So you’re new around here?” You asked, a sweet lilt to your voice as you ignored any of the negativity in his body language.

“Uh, yeah. Moved in a month or two ago.” He answered back as he tried to focus on the task at hand.

You bounded back over, nearly splayed across his shoulder, as you watched him examine the tire for any holes. He did find another reason for it to have gone flat.

“Shit, it looks like the cap for the air valve is missing. It’ll just run out of air aga…”

“Oh, here you go.” You quickly and conveniently pulled the little black cap from your shorts pocket, holding it out for him to take.

Robert is well confused as to why it’s in your pocket instead of on your bike, but as his brows knit together, he found he didn’t care to ask. He only wanted to get this shit done. It was hard enough to work while trying to keep an eye on the beautiful creature that had just invaded his space.

“So, what made you decide on this neighborhood?” You asked, rocking back and forth on your heels as you stood back up from your hunched position.

You toed around his garage as he pumped the bike tire out of his line of vision but not his mind.

“Uh, I don’t know. The house was cheap, I guess.” He answered back.

You ran your finger along the dusty lines in a small fridge at the corner of the garage as you continued to speak. “Meet any other neighbors?”

“Uh, no. Hey, I’m trying to do this, so if you could..yeah.” He couldn’t string together the precise words, but his meaning came through. He wanted you to cut out whatever the hell you were doing where he couldn’t see.

Not that you would actually listen, but you did give him a sassy “Sor-ry.”

“Thank you for helping me. I promise I’ll be very appreciative.” You said as you cracked the door open on the little fridge, feeling the cool air on your shins, before leaning down to look at its contents. The sound only just made him stop tinkering with the bike and toss you a glance over his shoulder. It wasn’t until he heard the ‘pst’ of someone cracking open a can of his beer that it spurred him back onto his feet.

“Hey, get the fuck out of there!” He yells behind his shoulder before fully standing. He watched, fuming a little, as you brought the open can to your lips for a taste.

He rushed across the small garage to rip the cab from your fingers, shouting out, “What the fuck do you think you're doing?!” before knocking the cab down instead.

It spilled out over the both of you, coating your clothes and his hands.

“Jesus, god damn it!” As he shakes the beer from his fingers as he sets the now empty can aside, trying not to just throw it at you.

You only gave a little “oh no” as you pulled at your now wet clothes.

He was already tearing at his soggy t-shit to pull it free from his body, not wanting anymore sticky skin. You followed suit, pulling your top over your head and letting your soft and unencumbered breasts fall free from the fabric. A cool breeze blew through from the opening of the garage, making your bare buds perk up against the chill.

Robert was at a loss for even a single thought at the sight of you. That breeze is the first thing to snap him back into reality. He’s at a loss as to what to do first: cover you up or shut the garage so no other neighbors could see the display you’d made.

He moves quickly now, jumping after the cord for the garage door and yanking it down until it hits the cement with a hard clunk.

He turned back as you began to unbutton your shorts to free yourself from the wet denim. He has to rush over and grab the hem of your shorts just to keep you from slipping them down your body and completely exposing yourself to him.

He shouts out at you with “What the fuck are you doing?”

“My clothes got dirty.” You say this as if it were a matter of fact, like this was something completely normal to do in the presence of a strange man.

“What?!” Robert was entirely confused, half certain that none of this could be reality. Surely he had passed out from the heat, and this was some gorgeous fever dream.

“You spilled beer on my clothes; I have to take them off.” You spoke softly, more demure as you slid your hands over his as he gripped your undone jeans. You were gentle, especially compared to the stiffening of his muscles as you ran your nails lightly up and down his arms.

When Robert wasn’t immediately responsive, you taped at the nose piece of his glasses, pushing them up his face as you taunted him. "Geez, you’re thick.”

You had gotten close, nearly tickling the tip of his nose with yours.

“You know, I was hoping to say that when I actually got your pants off.”

You were devious. You had never seen ‘Robert’ in the neighborhood before and you sure as hell hadn’t seen any moving trucks to signal a new neighbor's presents in your cozy little burb. He looked wild, messy long hair, wide shoulders and a thick air of aggravation around him. The muscles in his neck had tightened as he had fought against the inner workings of his car.

You had thought you had a shot, but he had seemed so unreceptive. You definitely didn’t account for the spilling of the beer you had taken, but you worked it in your favor.

He simply puffed out a sharp breath, looking down at your exposed skin and realizing the absurdity of fighting against you. It was the first time he actually stopped to ask himself why he was trying to stop you.

He let you take his hands in yours, helping him push the wet denim down your body until they finally fell to the dusty floor before you kicked them away.

His voice was much more subdued, almost weak, as you cornered him against the side of his car. “What the hell are you doing?” He spoke more in awe this time. He was never this lucky, so you’d have to excuse his consistent skepticism.

You smiled once his hands had left the hem of your shorts and spread along your bare skin. You nuzzled over his cheek, leaning in to ghost your lips along the scruff of his mustache and beard. Whispering lowly, “I think you know exactly what I’m doing,” before finally stealing a heated little kiss.

It was quick, even searing. Even within this sweltering garage, he made your skin flush even hotter. At first, he hadn’t been as receptive as you’d hoped he would be, but as he pressed into the kiss you knew he’d finally come around.

Robert completely switched, becoming more aggressive with the way he handled you as he dragged his teeth over your lower lip before sucking it between them. You smiled with a happy whine as his mouth tore away to pepper sloppy, desperate kisses over your jaw and along your neck and shoulder.

Your fingers spread over his wide shoudlers, pulling him closer until his chest was squished against your plush breasts. His hands gripped either side of your waist, holding on tight as if you could fly away at any moment.

His fingers didn't wander over the parts of your body where you needed them the most. Out of a little frustration, you basically had to grab his digits too harshly so as to guide him to drag them over your hip. His hand didn't want to leave your soft flesh, and you laughed as you forced it over your belly and down the front of your panties.

“C’mon, I need you to touch me, Robert.” You sounded impatient, but you were met with an equally needy growl of agreement as it rumbled from his chest.

His fingers kicked into action as soon as a tip touched one of your hidden folds. You hummed with joy, giggling against his lips as you stole another kiss.

His fingers wove through your lower lips to play at your entrance. You’re raking your fingers through his long hair as he’s dragging his thick digits through the soft petals of your soppy cunt.

His left hand traveled further down your body, sliding through the waistband of those lace panties. His right fingers pumped through your wet sex as he fought to gain purchase around the thin material of your underwear. His mind was too preoccupied with bumping his knuckles along your inner walls as he broke his lips away again to bite at your neck. The bruises he’d leave would bloom angry and purple by tomorrow.

An animalistic part of his brain became fed up with this last scrap of fabric as it stuck to your body, and his nails tore through it in protest before he ripped it with a sickening crack of snapping seams. It stayed stuck around the side of your other leg but fell to ribbons alongside the other.

His hands reached further, gripping your by the back of your soft squeezable thighs and hoisted you up so that your sneakers dangled a good 6 inches off the floor.

Your ass crashes against a shabby tool bench that helped to sandwich the two of you next to the car. It came with the house, and he was planning to just chuck it out, but somehow it became incredibly useful.

With you more or less safely perched at cock height, he began tearing apart his belt buckle so he could shimmy his jeans down to his thighs.

“Is this even fucking real?” He growls under his breath, moreso to himself, but you laugh anyway.

His hands were hungry, dragging and clawing over your body. It was as if he needed to memorize its shape, as if by some stroke of terrible luck you could disappear within an instant.

His boxer band is on display before he grabs a handful of cloth and denim to pull it down to his thighs. His cock is more alive than it had been in months, and with the option of real pussy on the line, it was throbbing, bobbing against his stomach as he pulled it free.

“Oh shit. Are you sure?” He still doubted, frustrating you just a little bit more.

You nod back, whimpering, “Yes, yes!”

“You’re not gonna turn back into a pumpkin the second I stick it in, will ya?” He chuckled, finally letting himself relax.

“Oh what, you think you’re fuckin funny all of a sudden?” You say as you wrapped your legs around his back to pull him flush against your lower body.

This time he’s taking the hint and aligning the tip with the soft pink opening of your flower. He nearly wanted to commit the image of it to memory, but for now he couldn’t leave either of you waiting a single second, and he pushed through your tight little opening.

Oh, what a beautiful young lady you were! You were practically flexing around his cock as he pushed further in.

“Fuck Me.” He gritted out as he ground his teeth together.

He fucks you just like that, bent over your splayed body, carefully pumping through your tight channel. He was eager now, paying no mind to your tight expression as he stretched your walls apart.

His hips started to piston back and forth, making the old wooden legs of that work bench creak in protest of the misuse. You were hanging off the edge, one shoed foot propped up by the heel on the side of the bench, and the other grazing against the cement floor in the hopes of balancing itself.

You whine at the tickling and the flutter of his cock dragging along your inner walls, stirring your pussy and making you cry. You sang his name—a tune he’d never thought he’d hear sung from such sweet lips.

The garage is humid, with thick and sticky hot air clouding over you both as he plunged in and out of your wet heat. Each slam of his hips sent a ricochet of something hot, like a satisfying burn shooting up your belly and smoldering against the back of your eyelids.

Each shot of that white-hot bliss built into a waiting inferno until it all burst apart. You nearly couldn’t breathe as you unraveled around him, and he ground his teeth together as his own end neared.

For as fuck drunk as you had made him, he still had some sense to pull himself free from your gushing flower before his cock began to seize. Instead, he spilled out all over your soft belly.

His cock continued to twitch, dribbling out a last few beads of white nectar before beginning to soften.

Robert was fighting to catch his breath while being suffocated by the cloud of heat the two of you had made in that small garage.

“Fuck.” He groaned as he pulled his shirt up to wipe the sweat from his face, pushing up his glasses in the process.

You had to push yourself to sit up before carefully hopping down. The cum was still thick and wet, threatening to drip down your stomach and between your legs from the change of position.

“You’ve made me all dirty.” You whined.

“Uh, sorry.” His eyes were lidded, barely registering your words other than those that required an apology from himself.

“Well, I’m gonna need a shower.” You spoke, but he wasn’t really listening anymore. He’s still so dumbfounded as you saunter right for the entrance to his house from the measly little garage.

It took him a minute to regain his bearings; only after taking a breath did he realize that the strange temptress that had bested him was now wandering through his house.

“Wait, a fuckin minute!” He shouted as he ran after you.

@alternativegirl23 (I’m a big fan)