We

We’re watching the end of a DVD. We’re both still in our pyjamas, he in a white singlet and striped boxers that I chose in one of those ‘shopping for boyfriend’ moments, I in a black slip with lace trim that does nothing to hide my cleavage. The kind of cleavage you could happily sleep between. The kind that had been the centre of his attention a few hours before. (He remarked how responsive my nipples were: I, close to cumming through the bites and flicks of tongue alone on budded nipples, thinking this isn’t how Good Girl’s bodies respond). I have my head on his chest, and his long arm is wrapped around me, a network of veins and pale freckled skin. I place my hand casually on his cock, or at least in the vicinity of it, knowing that that action alone will pinpoint its exact location it is within seconds. He makes a small chuckle of something, perhaps appreciation. My touch is gentle, not at all urgent. My fingers trace the outline of his cock as I marvel at how easily it transforms under my touch.

(I think of the night before, of my eyes filled with delight as the stripper dances naked for me, and he, the proud swell of his cock barely contained within his pants, his lustful eyes on me as my lustful eyes are trained on another woman, a slight blush colouring my cheek).

It makes sense to undo that little button on the front of the boxers. It makes sense to slide my fingers in and touch the smooth skin of his shaft. It makes sense to wet my fingers and return them to their treasure, letting them rub gently at whatever surface they can find. And so, I tug his cock out of its cozy home and through the hole in the front of his boxers. I tug it out as he lets out another chuckle (of approval). I slide my head down to his lap and take the head of his cock gently into my mouth. This is my thing. This is what I do best and if there is just one thing in the world I want, it’s to give the perfect blowjob. To know that at that one moment that man is completely under my control and has never ever felt anything so good. I have been told that I am exceptional. I do not doubt this, because giving head is my thing. It’s one big continuous improvement programme. I have skill with mouth and tongue and lips (and teeth) combined with hands. It’s my pièce de résistance. I go through moves in my head, what my lips will do, where my tongue will go, building neural pathways like some elite athlete training for their big moment.

And so, my mouth is on him. There is nothing rushed about this, about us. He is starting to vocalize a little, perhaps in anticipation of what is to come. I find that valley that runs just under the head of his cock and run my tongue back and forth along its groove. I flick at the head of his cock with my tongue, eliciting twitches from him and rapid intakes of breath. I slowly lower my head down over him until I can feel him butting against the back of my soft palate. I relax my throat and push down, allowing the head to slip past my epiglottis and into my throat. I hear him gasp sharply and I smile internally. I smile at what I have just done. I slowly retreat from his cock only to ride down it again, into my throat, surprised at the lack of gag reflex and thrilled at the prospect that I now have his cock all the way in, with my lips at the base of his shaft. His beautiful cock is now entirely within my mouth and I am delighted.

Could you?

Could you just say something? Could you just speak and I will listen? Could you reach out a single digit tentatively and prod me? See what happens? Could you fumble with my pants: belt, buttons, hooks, zip; pull them down (disgracefully) around my ankles, a loose form of bondage? Could you take lascivious delight in diaphanous underwear: mesh, lace, always bows; that show a hint of hair beneath, but only a hint because you know there’s never much there? (Just enough to show I’m a woman but barely enough to be considered decent). Could you tug at my underwear with greedy hands, pulling it down in bursts of desire as it rolls to a bunch with my pants? Could you, because there isn’t much of an opening, push your fingers between my pussy lips: push, force, slide, stretch; until you find my wetness? Your fingers now slick, could you slide them towards my front to fumble for that nubbin of pleasure? Could you press there, flick there sending galvanic pulses through me? Could you make me shudder and moan and beg and ache and pant for more, please more, please fuck me please don’t stop don’t stop don’t oh god yes oh god I hate you love you love you love you. Oh. Could you do that for me?

Dear Martha

Its been a while now but everything is still so fresh. I think back every hour and have flashes of what we had for such a short time.

Walking through the streets. Touching slightly every so often, everything meaning something. Nothing was supposed to happen. Nothing was going to happen.

Standing in the kitchen. Watching you make tea. Every motion you make sensuous. Brushing back your hair. I wanted to do that for you. I wanted to touch you so much. I stared at the back of your neck, exposed. An overwhelming urge to kiss you.

We sat on the couch. Both nervous and unsure. We touched and I leaned into you. Breathing and brushing my lips down the side of your cheek. We kissed gently and slowly. Tentative. No words, just an understanding. My whole body responding to you. My skin tingling. My erection aching. We fumbled like innocents. Unsure yet sure of what we were doing. Quickly we pleased one another. The intimacy of oral sex meaning more in some ways. The way we came, the way our bodies responded to each others mouths was incredible. We exchanged everything in such a short time and I loved you. Completely and utterly.

You walked me home. I looked at you and had a sudden feeling. You looked at me and told me how turned on you were at that moment. It's surreal how we were / are / will be. I just felt you.

Now I'm gone. Gone far away. They say absence makes the heart grow fonder. But it's slowly driving me insane. Do you think we can even continue? Did it even really happen at all?

Dear John

In answer to your message....


Yes I miss you.  Yes I liked hanging out with you.  We are just so alike that it's scary.  Could you imagine spending any extended period of time together?  I think we would drive other people crazy.  They wouldn't be able to keep up with our frantic pace of mayhem.  I wasn't intending to do anything with you.  I had told myself no (although I was wearing matching underwear so perhaps my subconscious knew otherwise).  When I saw you I still thought no, for about 5 seconds.  Then I thought yes.  I thought yes I would like to take you home with me.  I would like to have you sitting on my couch.  We got there.  I got nervous.  You seemed relaxed.  And we kissed.  I still haven't worked out your style of kissing.  I need to let you lead more, but it's something I struggle with.  I liked you glancing down at your jeans, as if I wasn't aware myself of the growing bulge underneath the surface of the fabric.  I liked your change in breathing as things became more frantic.  We knew didn't we?  We knew time alone would lead to something.  And it did.  Your skill leaves me breathless, me like some wanton woman coming again and again in rapid succession.  And the ending.  The fucking.  It was the perfect way to end.  We ended with a new beginning.  With something new to both of us.  We opened a door we said we wouldn't, because it wasn't 'our thing'.  I'm glad that we didn't really follow our usual pattern.  You felt good inside me.  Amazingly so. 
 
This thing between you and I doesn't have an ending does it?  It's timeless.  It's something quite beautiful. An understanding between two people that goes beyond words.  It's an unconventional type of love.  But it is love.