The Lost Weekend
The warm nights, the soft skin, the smooth silk, the lost weekend. The cabin was dark but for cool candle light that flickered on your skin, illuminating the silk of the hairs on your arms as I licked my tongue on the skin around your upper arms. I smooth trail of wetness as I raise up along your arms, pressing my tongue on the soft curve of your shoulder, to the base your neck, kissing there lightly, then up your neck to the dip at the nape. As you hold your head back, I nibble on your ear, run my tongue over the rim and behind it as your eyes close, and your neck feels the caress of my tongue in chills that roll form the back of your neck down your spine. I straddle over you, my knees astride your hips, my chest just touching your breasts, my head moving to the other side of yours and kiss up your neck as I did on the other side till I find the places on your ears that send deeper warmer chills down the length of your spine to your places become wet and squirming. I raise my head and look in your eyes as they slowly open and gaze into mine, the creases at the outer edges expressing a need for more. Your shoulders hunch up, you lips part. My lips lean down and touch your in a lingering caress of lip to lip, the soft skin hardly moving, just touching, lightly as the touch of an eye to eye an across a warmly lit room. But the touch of lips, invites a press, and the press parts lips from lips and invites the entrance of tongues, touching lightly at first with a slight drawing away, then a more confident pressing, till a sweep of contact lays tongue against tongue, painting the surfaces as fingers in an embrace, as arms together in a dark place, hot and passionate. How is the completion of an act of passionate love described? As the feeling of a hard prick resting momentarily on a wanting cunt, the lips almost breathing in desire? As a woman’s hand reaching down and taking a thick shaft and urging it down with her fingertips into her waiting pussy and raising her wanton hips to the slow press of the organ that enters her and slides in smoothly and deeply at the widening of her thighs and the waiting walls of her soaked insides? As the touch of rigid manly flesh against the folds of womanly vagina, in and out in the long lustful strokes of fucking? As the breaths getting longer and harder and then short and moaning? As the rubbing of skin of cock to the interior of a woman’s needful grasping of cunt to ridgidness? As I mashing of hips and thrashing of arms and grasping of breasts, hips, arms, head, mouth to mouth till a stream of human cum fills a human’s lovely hole, and rolls around deep inside her churning up more desire, more fleshy juices till both bodies are spent in flashing waves of quick ecstasy that is enjoyed so much, but seems gone before it has even begun? As the warm afterglow of holding arms in arms, breath subsiding against the skin of a shoulder or neck or ear? As the soft, dropping off to sleep in a satisfaction not born of physical pleasure, though physical pleasure was where it expressed itself, but in mutuality born of love? Mutual loss of self? Mutual fading into one? The morning found you waking as I filled the stove with burning wood. You yawn and stretch and wrap yourself with the blanket and walk to me. "What’s cha doing?" You ask. "Making breakfast." You look down and see the ample pot filled with hand ground dried corn. You look over at the table and see where the mortar and pestle sit still dusted with the corn I had ground moments before. "This is the best way," I smile. Watch me stir the corn grain in hot butter around and around till it seem to absorb the mild creamy warm oils, then I slowly pour in from a kettle a generous portion of water just at the boiling point till the liquid mingles and foams in the pot, reaching a quick simmer. I deftly cover the pot with a loosely fitting cover. "Ok, let’s go." "Go?" You ask. "Where?" "To get the rest of our breakfast, " I answer looking at the clothes laid out across the chair. You let the blanket fall and embarrassingly pull on the panties and then the bibbed farmer jeans. "I can’t go out like this." you say in alarm, looking at how your breasts were visible to a great extend from the sides. "No one around here. Don’t worry." I smile handing you a wooden bowl taking one myself and leaving our cabin. You follow me and soon see what the idea is. We wander around the brush and woods around the cabin and pluck strawberries from near the ground, raspberries from the vines and blueberries from the bushes. Till our light brown wooded bowl are filled to overflowing and we make our way back to the cabin, our gathered berries in one hand, our hands together in the other. Back at the cabin, I serve the fluffy corn meal with milk and brown sugar topped by fresh berries we had gathered and washed. Little of the morning was wasted. After breakfast, we decided to take a shower. First you, then me, then together. My hair soaked in soap suds my back to the door, the shower streaming water down my chest, I feel your hand replace mine as they drop to my sides. With gentle fingers you work the soap into my hair a few minutes, then take the shower head and rinse me down from head to toe, streams of white creamy soap rivering down my skin. I turn and you sit on the warm bath stool holding the shower spray in one hand rushing against your clitoris, your legs spread wide, while you other hand takes my cock and gently strokes it harder. Your eyes close as the streams of hot water pelting your between the legs makes you moan. You lean in masturbating your center with the water, taking my swollen cock in your mouth and slowly rocking in and out, sucking me into your mouth, as your throat moans in delight from the pools of bliss that form in your clitoris only to fountain out moments later as the throbbing in your mouth sends new sprays of thicker, whiter, just as hot liquid into your mouth. In one hand you hold a shower spray pelting your vagina and clit, in the other a shooting cock misting your face and open mouth and held out tongue with cum. The double shower makes you jerk and quiver as you sit before me your eyes closed, mine watching. I take the shower head from you and rinse you off. I replace the shower handle on the wall and position the stream toward us, raising you by your shoulders till we embrace, there in the shower of hot water naked and passionate. That afternoon, we spend at Tanglewood listening to an afternoon of Mozart and after a picnic dinner, an evening of modern music, Philip Glass, John Carpenter and John Tavener. And there in the dark, strains of the last piece, Tavener’s "Song for Athene" we cuddle near the fence as all eyes stare down at the long hair and deft conducting of Tavener. In the warm, comfort of the sleeping bag, protecting us from the growing coolness of the early evening. I feel your hand reach down and undo my belt, unsnap my pants, and unzip the zipper. As I squirm my trousers and shorts off, I feel your hitch up your skirt, and pull off your panties. You slid on top of me and I fell the dampness between your legs surround my hard dick as you slowly lower and rest on me. To the slow choral strains for the song you move up and down on my hardening prick slowly and evenly, slow as not to attract the attention of the people. The soft steady strokes add a sensuous importance to the act of lovemaking. A savoring of each movement, a sharing of each breath, a tasting of each kiss, a thrill at each touch. In the comfort of the bag, you slowly finish on me moving on my ready to climax prick, the moans in your throat, like a low chorus, draw out my orgasms longer than I have ever experienced. The possibility of someone noticing as your head presses its cheek against mine, your hips in tremors of desire as you continue moving on me, slowly cumming and biting on my earlobe to stifle your screams. I feel the rising gorge of pleasure seeing to concentrate and contract but at the same time swell and expand the length of my cock, the awful gratification translating into a shout of extreme proportions. The vehemence of my reaction draws shrieks of transport from your throat you joining me in the closure at the massive climax. The shouts from our mouths echoed as the audience rises to its feet applauding the final strains of music evaporating in the cool night air, "Come, enjoy rewards and crowns I have prepared for," I whisper in your ear as Tavenor gestures to the chorus and the crowd shouts and claps in frenzied appreciation to the glory of the evening.
