Writers tell stories. First, this happened, then that, then the next thing. The first look, the kiss, the fondling…a little requisite tension and conflict…and then, the inevitable crescendo and conclusion.
But I am not linear. My sex moves like the ocean. Back and forth, from the shore to the depths. Sometimes riding the waves, sometimes tumbling and turning beneath them, spewing sand and salt and seaweed, gasping for air as I come up.
So I don’t always know how it happens. How I walk into a kiss that pulls me in, makes me shudder, elicits sounds from the hollow of my throat – when I expected something friendly and perfunctory. How your body felt so instantly familiar, how I melted into you without a thought. How I knew I would be taking that short walk down the Manhattan-length hallway, and slide into the down and pillows of your well-made bed, sometime before dawn.
I didn’t say yes…and I didn’t say no. I just did. When you slip your hand into the gap of my skirt, under the thin veil of my panties, and land on my clit in an instant, you find me already swollen and wet. When I reach down in response, I find your cock already hard. When you suggest the skirt would work better without the panties, I agree. And when you slide me up on the table and offer your wet mouth over my wet sex as an appetizer, my legs drop open.
This is not so much a story as an unfolding. There is no struggling heroine with heaving bosom. No tension between lovers. No need to earn permission.
This is a tale of ease. Of surrender. Of enjoying hours of build-up. Sneaking hands beneath clothing in dark corners…stroking under the table in a dark lounge…exchanging one look of “it’s time to go” – a look that required no negotiation.
I would like to pretend it’s age. That at 43, with two marriages and two children behind me, I can afford to be an uncalculated yes to a 30-something hot-bodied, large-cocked, self-assured man who knows his way around my body without a map.
But it’s not. Age is merely the excuse to finally stop apologizing for being the woman I have always been.
I like to melt under an assured touch. I like to feel the hardness of you. I like to open to you. I like to be taken, owned, handled, even for just a few hours. And while I might like assurances and promises – what woman doesn’t – I have learned to take my pleasure without them.
As I wait for you on the edge of the bed, wrapped in only a towel, you take your time. You light candles, put a small bowl of three strawberries on the bedside table, and make sure the air conditioner is not blowing right onto the bed. I am silent, patient. No need to make conversation or fill the space with anything more than my tacit consent.
I can think only of how your body will feel against mine when finally, both naked and slightly damp from the shower, we press fully into one another. Or of how your cock will feel inside me. Or how deep into me you will go to satisfy yourself. How often. How long.
When you come into me, you want it all. You want to disappear inside me – not just cock, but mouth tongue, face, hands. You leave no part of me unexplored. You are the consuming type, and I agree to be consumed.
You put so much of your hand inside me as to almost disappear. I am shy here, afraid to release a flood onto your bed. Afraid to be seen here, to go primal with you. We are turned-on to each other, yes. But we are not intimate. We are not even friends. We are comfortable strangers. And while I will give you my sex, I want to hold back my essence.
But you don’t back off here, and I sense that you can handle me. And I so want to let go. You stand me up, over the hardwood floor, and instruct me to put my back up against the wall, and my leg up on the bed. Half-kneeling half-sitting in front of me on the bed, your hand reaches back inside as you lean into me and whisper, “Give it all to me this time. Don’t hold back. I’ve got you.”
And again, I just do. Well past when I would have stopped on my own. Well past what I thought would be pleasurable. Well past what seemed like too much. I let you have every drop of me. When my foot falls back to the floor, it lands in a puddle that makes me feel shy and young all over again. I laugh a little, but I am crying too. And shaking. And vulnerable. And still, you stay.
You sit me down, and settle in beside me. When I can’t answer any questions about what I want next, you hand me a strawberry…and it is the best strawberry I have ever tasted. Only then, do I speak. Only then do I say yes – this has been very unexpected, and we both laugh – but yes, every part of me is satisfied. I have held nothing back.
I don’t talk of tomorrow. I don’t say that I never do this, or I’m not THAT kind of girl. Neither of us needs it.
Instead, I lay you down and admire again your hard, slightly curved cock. The care you take with your body…beautifully shaved and trimmed…as if clothing is simply an inconvenience you give in to when you must. You are so natural here. We are so natural here.
I take you into my hands. You have already drizzled lube on yourself and are slippery to my touch. Suddenly shy yourself, surprised that no more performance is required. That there is no rush. That I am in no hurry, even here. That just the look and feel of your cock is so deeply satisfying to me. You are as surprised by me as I was by you. A match of equals that neither of us expected.
You surrender to my stroking. Willing to go in any direction I choose, at any pace, with no instructions or urgency. Neither of us chasing your orgasm, but calling it out gently into my hands. Pulling it up, up, up – from all parts of you. Until the moment of climax itself passes by in slow motion, joy and ease pumping out of you, onto me. Your wetness dissolving into mine…instant intimacy…just add water and stir.