back and forth
I cup my hands under her ass as she reclines on the bed, lifting her to me like a man drinking from a bowl. I draw in a breath and take her clit into my mouth, rolling my tongue across it in undulations and she inhales as if in pain.
This was the first image that had popped into my head when she came to the door, dressed for our date like she had polled my id for the outfit that would drive me craziest. Carnal thoughts drove out all others when I saw the low-slung jeans, her full ass rounding the denim, her hair pulled back into two, long pigtails (oh please, please leave the pigtails in when we fuck, please), an innocent coquette and an earthy Lolita in one. I could only think of disappearing between her thighs and tasting her.
The picture of her upturned face in ecstasy haunted me, turned my mind from dinner table chit-chat, from making correct change at Ben and Jerry's (oh dear god, she bought a cone, licking the cone and it dripped to her fingers and she licked them too, oh god), distracted me while I tried to be charming.
I watched the olive skin of her face crinkle like crushed silk by her eyes when she smiled and her dark eyes glanced downward at her fingernails, tracing shapeless patterns in the condensation on the table from her beer (later she's tracing those same patterns through my hair as I lick the inside of her thigh). Her voice is light and has just the slightest hint of a breathiness (but it can be loud and guttural, filled with pleasure), like a sigh is always hovering at the edge of her throat.
I force myself to do everything slowly back at her apartment. I open the wine slowly, walk slowly to the living room (and she has her shoes off there, her feet bare, stretched out before her as she lies back), wait patiently for her to move her feet so I can sit but instead she lifts both legs straight up (don't look at that curve of buttock, the joining of leg to groin that leads to a softly defined mound, don't look at it), I sit down and she places those perfect feet in my lap. I hand her the glass of wine and she watches me from above the rim. I sip slowly and she follows suit, also slowly because she savors everything (a drop of wine on her lips and her tongue darts out to catch it and I am doomed) and she rests the glass on her belly, soft and ever so slightly rounded.
How do I maintain my composure? Flashes of pictures in my head, a film projector gone haywire flickers all the things my body is telling me to do, all the things my hands long to touch and probe, the places my tongue yearns to taste, the sweaty joints where our bodies will meet. She smiles (that smile, it’s the same when hair is stuck to her damp forehead and she’s catching her breath) and she’s telling me about her very first date. Dry, self-deprecating jokes about clumsy kisses while I strain to listen attentively, but she’s moving a finger around her own belly button and along the downy hairs that trail from it to her waist and onward. I shift in my seat, careful not to disturb her beautiful feet resting in my lap, but moving one heel from the erection that is now painfully straining against it (she feels it, I know she does).
I catch her glance and she knows her words have only part of my attention. Dark eyes glint over ruby wine and that finger still traces lazily up and down and the button of her jeans is now open, like magic, without my seeing it. I am in her spell utterly and I feel warmth suffuse my skin. I watch like a man being hypnotized, her hand carry her glass to rest on the table and return to her belly, pushing her shirt up just slightly, the fabric bunching against her delicate finger (soft panties, bunched against her ankle later, and still later against my cheek as she playfully teases me with them), and I’m treated to 2 more inches of precious skin, velvet treasure.
My breaking point’s near. I can feel my will splintering like green wood and she sees it, sees the steam in my eyes and the trembling pressure beneath my lips and in my groin. I place my glass on the table too, hand trembling slightly (a small shudder, in her shoulders, when I place my mouth over the hollow of her throat in bed, and lick the space there, breathing warm and softly) and turn to her with what I hope is an expectant smile. She sits up, bends forward at the waist (flexible, yes, flexible enough to pin her feet behind my ears, scrabbling at my arms with her nails as I piston in and out of her, our shouts competing for the last echo in my room), and she kisses me.
Her mouth tastes of wine and cloves and water, her tongue snakes slowly between her teeth and then between mine, her hand on my neck (that pulse I feel like the one under my fingers on her wrist, holding her hand as she clutches for my head, begging me to stop and not to stop as she comes in explosive waves), and I fall. I fall into her, into her mouth and her eyes, into her skin and her hair, into her arms and her thighs, into her pussy and her breasts, I fall into her and I beg her never to let me out.
