Romantic and erotic

I haven’t seen Tamara for nearly an hour, but then,
I haven’t been looking for her. Her boyfriend — or,
more precisely, the man whom she has been with lately,
and who she wishes would be her boyfriend — has left
the party early, and alone. I noticed she didn’t leave
with him. I think she must be in the back of the house
somewhere. She almost always seeks some soft place to
lie down when she’s high.

The rest of us, the last hangers-on, talk into the
night, the way you do in an altered state of conscious-
ness. Most of the other guests have left, only the
friends remain. The music is off now, and the laughter
quiet, the way old friends laugh together in the
silence of a cool September night. Matt is another
year older, and the actual chronological fact of the
birthday is about to pass when I realize I have to take
Jeanne home.

Jeanne is my girlfriend. I have to take her home
because her curfew is midnight. I’m not going to tell
you her age. I will tell you that loving her I’m
breaking no laws in my state, at least no serious ones.
I had looked it up, so I knew. At least a part of me
is cautious.

She looks sleepy and I rouse her. She’s tired be-
cause it’s Friday and she’s worked hard, several hours
overtime at a local supermarket. Checkout girl. That’s
where I met her, or she met me. Her eyes kept inviting
me to ask, and eventually I did. She looks older than
she is, with her athletic figure, smooth skin, and
swirl of sometimes unruly blonde hair. A face a little
wider than some with her trim build, but sensual, sen-
sual lips.

She seems to be glad to be going home, or at least,
maybe glad to be leaving. All of my friends are years
older than her, and so it’s a bit of a strain to fit
in, although she does a brave job of it. We drive home
in silence, she sitting next to me on the seat, head on
my shoulder. The house is dark when we arrive. I
expect to take her to the porch and kiss her good
night, but instead we make out in the car. I confess
my mind isn’t on her, not entirely. Even tired, her
agile tongue curls actively in my mouth, and even
kissing back I think of Susie.

Susie, and Betty. But I’m not going to go into
those details here — that’s another story. All I can
say is that I left Susie’s arms very, very late last
night to drive the hour and a half home for Matt’s
party. Susie and Betty had promised to come — in
fact, to bring their Wesson oil (they had said, with a
wink; I had thought it was probably a joke, but hoped
not). But they did not come. There was no Wesson oil
at this party. It was a disappointment to me, as I
had high hopes for an interesting time in the span of
darkness before the next dawn. When you’re young,
time and sleep seem nothing, nothing.

“Mom’s asleep.” Jeanne whispers softly in my ear.
I wonder why no lights are on in the house. Only the
yellow bug-light on the front porch. Jeanne has a key.

I feel a hand between my legs. Probing, touching,
feeling there. We’ve done this before, but never here.
Right in the driveway. It’s daring at best, more like
foolhardy. Fortunately, we are young, and therefore
invulnerable.

Her tiredness seems to have evaporated like mist
under the blazing sun. Our tongues dance together in a
familiar pattern. Her hand also feels nice, her
touches more direct, more ardent. I feel myself stir.
She doesn’t know how overworked I’ve been in that de-
partment lately. It’s difficult to get fully interest-
ed, even now. I can’t help mentally comparing her
tongue to Susie’s older, more experienced technique.
But it’s nice, very nice.

Somehow, we squiggle and squirm our way to the
passenger side, away from the steering wheel. I suppose
it’s easy and nearly automatic because we’ve done it so
often. We’re used to loving one another in this brit-
tle, windowed, steel and glass love nest. I have a
room of my own, as Matt and I are house mates. But
Matt’s girlfriend Janet (also an old friend of mine)
is often there, and Jeanne won’t make love in my room
when she’s there. The walls are very thin because it’s
quite an old house, pretty far out in the country.

When I get to the passenger seat, she swings her
leg over me and straddles my loins. We are, of course,
still fully clothed. But our mouths solder together
for a little while, and the feel of her against me, the
clean, bright scent of her, the touch of her thighs on
mine, rouse a bit more of my desire. Outside, it’s
brightly moonlit. I can see most everything clearly,
now with the car lights off and my eyes adjusted to the
dark. She breaks our kiss, and leans back slightly. I
can see the gloss on her swollen lips.

She watching me, I watching her, we lock eyes.
Below, I can feel motion. I know what’s she’s doing,
and why. She’s unbuttoning the top button of her
shorts, which takes a moment of fumbling, and then
the sound of the zipper.

Access.

We kiss again, our soaked lips pressing, sucking,
our tongues again probing, thrusting and parrying. My
hand does not hesitate, but moves swiftly to the dark
V of her open zipper. The fingers find her navel,
circle around it, and dip downwards, to the elastic
ring of her panties. Her legs widen a trifle more, not
because they need to I don’t think, but just in
welcome.

Past the elastic, stretching it outward. Through
the fleecy cornsilk of her hair, where to my surprise
I find wetness, slick hot honey matting the bottom of
the inverted triangle. Heat. My fingertips probe
further down, finding not the narrow band of the valley
between the open thighs and the ridges of hair, but
seemingly a wide open plain of warm velvet flesh,
spread open in verdant welcome to its bony, agile
invaders.

Oh, the mystery of women! Only a few minutes ago
she’d seemed so tired, so uninterested. I was sure
when we pulled up I’d just escort her to the door and
kiss her good night. Now she’s hot, open, flowing like
a river. As soon as I touch her sensitive labia, she
thrusts her tongue in my mouth as deep as it will go.

I explore. I’m not in a foreign country, though.
I ought to be familiar with the territory, I’ve been
here often enough. But it’s always new, like the
ocean (in more ways than one). I love the complex
geography of that tiny area between a woman’s legs. My
fingertips find the borders of the valley, moving
around them, pressing and smoothing the outer lips.
She is incredibly soaked. I can feel the hairs bundled
and glued together in staves.

Inward, slowly, slowly — I seek the source of this
Nile. The smoothness of the borderlands gives way
gradually to a series of ridges and folds, all swim-
mingly flooded too. I’m concentrating on my fingers,
and let my tongue go idle. She takes up that cause in
earnest, seeming to make up for my lack of effort. But
as I find each tiny wrinkle of her inner lips, and
caress it with the ball of my fingertip, the tongue in
my mouth slows down. As I find the yielding mouth of
the volcano, and snake inside so gently, her swirling
stops, and her lips seem almost to rest against mine,
barely touching. I can feel her breath begin to cool
the saliva on my lips. Her breathing is starting to get
just a little uneven.

Inside. Inside. Deep, and up, where I feel re-
servoirs of honey as yet unreleased, which with my
touch give way, and a warm flood seems to run down my
knuckles. I press against the slick, satin walls,
feeling the marvelous hidden structures behind them.
Her body seems to tighten just a bit, and then relax
as a sigh, a small, quivery, girlish little sigh
escapes her. Her lips leave mine, and she rests her
face on my shoulder, wet lips now almost touching the
V where my shoulder meets my neck. I can feel her
thick blonde hair slightly tickling my cheek and neck.

Visibility. Now I can see the house, little yellow
bug light shining on the porch, all other windows dark,
standing about forty yards away in the bright full moon
light. It’s important to keep watch for a light coming
on, a door opening. I’m glad I can see. But every-
thing is quiet, except the crickets chirping their
myriad, desperate love songs into the late September
night.

As I watch, down below my fingers probe, circle,
rub, and finally withdraw a reluctant retreat from the
tunnel. Out, and up, slowly, northward in the valley
and towards the little mound that lies in these parts,
embedded there like a small hard marble in a velvet
pouch. I find it easily, of course, but touch it
slowly, cautiously. Her body tightens against mine as
I do. I’m not sure how to read that sign…is it too
sensitive? I decide on caution, and work my way around
it, touching and feeling, but not directly. Her head
lolls about, shaking slowly against me as if saying no,
but it is not no that she says, but “Yes.”, breathily
against my sweaty neck. Exactly her third word since
we left the party, I think.

I move across the marble, horizontally. She sighs
again, a little moan, and her arms tighten their grip
on my shoulders. That sounds like a green light to me.
I begin a slow, rhythmic motion, back and forth, up and
down, in a regular beat, fingertip gentle across the
slick hard nub. I can feel the reaction, and it’s not
subtle: she tightens, trembles, sighs. It’s like a
earthquake, building inside her. I keep my eyes on the
porch, and give her no mercy. Strumming, slowly, then
a bit faster. We haven’t got all night, after all.

I think of Susie. Her valley, her landscape, her
trembles, her sighs. The way she kisses, hard, lustful,
insistent. The way she heaves up her loins to me when
she comes. All different, and wonderfully different,
and yet similar. Such wonderful mysteries, such in-
credible discoveries; those already found, but those
waiting to be uncovered even sweeter.

Still, it’s hard not to feel a twinge of guilt.
Jeanne knows nothing of Susie. She’s missed me so,
when I’ve been out of town every week for a month now.
It’s all very confusing. I am quite fond of her, but
I could have never said I loved her, and I never have.
I’m going to have to tell her something; but it’s hard,
it’s hard.

Suddenly, lights dance about the car. I look
around — relief. It’s only a car on the road outside,
driving past. The sound comes slowly, then recedes
fast. Doppler effect.

Jeanne hasn’t noticed. Her trust is in me, and
only me, now. I can feel her body tense, tense. She
holds me tight, her breath now coming in ragged bursts.
She does not moan, but I can feel a tremble run through
her, then quiet, quiet; and then a heave that takes me
by surprise, a gasp and exhalation of air, almost
violent. “Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh” she groans into my
ear, then relaxes and falls silent again, except for
a somewhat noisy effort to regain control of her lungs.
My fingers stop their motion, knowing that to touch
her now might even hurt.

My hand, a bit cramped now from the narrow angle,
gives her whole vulva one last affectionate cup,
gently, and withdraws.

As her breathing slows, she touches her lips to my
neck, and ever so gently kisses me there. Then slowly,
languidly, she plants little kisses on my neck, cheeks,
lips, nose. She does it so lovingly, it hurts me.

She recovers, slowly, and leans back, looking at
my face in the moonlight. “Thank you.” she says. She
always thanks me. She’s so courteous. Her hand finds
it’s way again to the intersection of my legs, and
feels the hardness — yes, hardness — there.

“Your turn now.”

She feels me, tracing the outline through my pants.
I’m hard, and a bit aroused, but not as much as you’d
think. This last week has been anything but a drought
for me, sexually, but she does not know that. Once,
these bouts in the car, or somewhere else we’d stolen
for a hour or two, were thrilling, satisfying. But
that was before I’d gone on that business trip; that
long, tough software installation. Before I’d moved
in, during the week, with my old friend Betty. Before
she’d introduced me to Susie. A time when the only
threesome I’d known was that between myself, my
imagination, and my right hand. A time before the
exotic had made the ordinary seem, well, ordinary.

“It’s late.” I whisper. “You might better go in
now. We can take a rain check on it, and you can have
me soon when you’re not so far past your curfew.”

“Are you sure?” she asks. This is not a situation
we’ve been in before.

“It’s OK.” I reply. We kiss, gently, then she
unstraddles me and sits back, arranging her clothing,
zipping the zipper, buttoning the button. We kiss
again, and she slips out the passenger side, the noise
of the car door seeming loud in the quiet night air.
I watch her trim, sexy, athletic body move gracefully
to the house, and up the stairs. At the top, under
the yellow light, she turns, smiles, waves. I start
the car after the door closes, and begin the ten
minute journey back.

(I don’t know it yet, but I sense it. Sometime
soon, there will be a time when I drop her off and
don’t kiss her automatically. “No kiss?” she will
ask, perplexed. Sometime soon, there will be a week-
end when I don’t call, or come by. Sometime soon,
we’ll be standing in this driveway on an October
afternoon, my hands in hers, and she will ask with
red-rimmed eyes if I still love her. My silence —
hurt, hurting for her and me, selfishly — will say
all she does not want to hear. She’ll drop my hands,
and turn, and walk up those stairs without looking
back, without smiling, without waving.)

* * *

Our house is quiet, still, sitting there white in
the moonlight, deep in the piney woods. The only light
on is the living room. I come in quietly, to find
Matt, his girlfriend Janet, brother Bryan, our friend
Jerry, and our neighbor (200 yards further down the
dirt road) Kathy. They’re in a small circle in the
living room, draped casually on the sofa, chairs,
wooden floor. Passing a joint, it appears, or only a
roach, held in it’s long metal clip, trailing a swirl
of gray smoke into the dimly lit room. The detritus
of the party all around: beer cans, glasses, plates.

I’m offered, but decline. Just joining them might
entail staying up hours more. Kathy, in particular,
is infamous for her ability to party till dawn. I can
already sense a connection between her and Jerry.
Maybe she won’t be staying too long, after all, nor he.
Bryan will be sleeping on the couch. Matt and Janet
are often impatient, and might soon be abed too. But
still, I don’t join in, but announce tiredly I’m going
to hit the sack. No one begs me to stay, but I get a
strange vibe. Like something they know, that I don’t.
Matt is smiling a trifle strangely. It could be the
drugs, who knows?

It’s a small house. There are only six rooms —
two bedrooms, a bathroom, kitchen, tiny dining area,
and small living room. Built in the late 19th century,
probably for a sharecropper family. There are four
such houses out here in the woods — the mansion (it
is one) that once was the epicenter of this little
agricultural empire is further down the road, at the
very end. One of the houses is run down, Kathy lives
in one, and the family of the man who tends the land-
scaping and horses of the rich northern lady who now
owns this property makes up the other, besides ours.
They do have inside plumbing, as she fixed them up for
rental. But no heat, other than a fireplace and
electric baseboard heaters than don’t work very well.
No insulation at all, just board walls.

My feet creak the floorboards as I walk down the
hall to my bedroom. No need for a light — the windows
are large, and the full moonlight streams in. I open
the door to my bedroom — why is it closed? — and
look thankfully towards my single bed. And then I
remember.

I am not alone.

There in my bed, only half covered, lies a sleeping
girl. Tamara. Her tousled black hair wild around her
unusual, but not unattractive face. Her petite, beauti-
fully formed body lying back against the wall, her face
out towards the door. Being tiny, maybe a trifle under
five feet, she can even make my bed look big enough for
two. There’s room for me. What should I do?

I remember. Everyone expected her to go home with
Paul. What happened? I knew he had left, and she’d
stayed, and that they had come to the party together.
A fight? Unlikely: Paul wasn’t the fighting type. At
any rate, she has no ride home.

Somehow, the obvious idea of waking her up and
asking if she’d like me to drive her home never even
crosses my mind. She is, after all, fully clothed,
lying there sleeping (or apparently sleeping). But
Tamara and I have a slight history. There have been
times when she sat closer to me than necessary, or
touched me in a certain way. We’ve never been
intimate, but I’ve had signals that it might not be
unwelcome if it came to pass.

It seems natural just to get into bed with her —
after all, it is my bed — and see what happens. If
she wants to go home, I’ll be happy to take her. If
she wants to stay, that’s alight too. If she just
wants to sleep with me — that’s all — in my bed, I
would have no objection, as long as she didn’t snore,
kick, or cling too tight.

I strip. Normally, I always sleep naked, but in
this case I decide it might be prudent to slip on some
boxers. Quietly, I pull back the covers and nestle in
beside her. To see what will happen.

We’re only inches apart, as there is not much room
for two in a single bed. Amazingly, she doesn’t open
her eyes as I slip in beside her, facing her. She’s
only partly covered, and I pull up the blanket to cover
my legs, as there’s already a chill in the room. I
suspect she isn’t sleeping, but I study her face any-
way, in the pale, semi-reflected moonlight. Small,
round, almost Asian. There may be some Asian blood
there, it’s hard to tell. Short, straight black hair.
She looks peaceful, content. Slowly, as there seems
to be no reaction from her, I resign myself to just
nod off there beside her, a bit uncomfortably, on my
side.

That’s when she reveals she’s awake, by reaching
her hand up to me and caressing my upturned side. She
doesn’t open her eyes, just uses her hand as a blind
person would, feeling slowly upwards, almost tickling
me but not intending to. Across my chest, and up to
my chin, where she detects the beard — the first sure
mark of identification. I in turn reach out my hand,
and seek skin, but there isn’t much exposed. Only her
hands, and her face. Her clothes cover everything
else. I choose her upturned cheek, and softly, slowly
touch it.

At that, she opens her eyes and studies my face.
Her eyes are dark pools, so brown they are almost
black, but they reflect some subtle light from the
room behind me. It almost feels romantic, for a
moment.

But only a moment. Then, in a startling burst of
energy, she suddenly scrambles up out of the covers,
and climbs across me and out of the bed. I’m stunned.
My first thought is I’ve really screwed up now.
Assumed too much. Another blunder. Embarrassing.

But then I’m amazed again. She doesn’t head for
the door. I turn, and she’s standing there, beside
the bed, in the full moon from the window, and pulling
off her sweater. It flys up over her head, and back
into the darkness, out of the pool of pale blue light.
Other garments follow, in what seems to me a blinding
flash. Blouse. Pants. Bra. Panties. Socks.

I love to see a woman reveal her body to me for
the first time. But I admit, I’ve never had it done
so quickly, or so uninterestingly, before or since.
A slow strip, or even an ordinary undressing, would
have been sexy, but this is a bit too much.

Still, the glimpse I get of the revealed flash is
breathtaking. Perfect curves; young, bouncy, medium-
sized breasts with small dark nipples. And the sweet-
est, most beautiful ass a girl could have. This all
flashes by in a second or two, of course, before she
jumps (and that is the right word) back on the bed,
and on top of me.

She fits herself to my body, pressing every avail-
able inch of flesh to mine. She’s extraordinarily hot
— literally. Her skin is so warm, I must feel cold
to her. Arms go around my neck, her lips seek mine,
her nipples are hard enough to feel against my chest.
She writhes a bit on me, rubbing skin on skin, as I
feel my cock pulsing and filling against her leg. This
is all wordless, silent.

Tongue. Another tongue in my mouth, the third,
incredibly, in twenty-four hours, after Susie and
Jeanne. Tamara’s is small, agile, insistent, and
lighting quick. She licks at my lips, probes my own
tongue, swirls around inside. At the same time, she
places one leg between mine, and arcs her body slight-
ly, so as to bring the top of her pussy into contact
with my thigh. I can feel the heat, the wetness there.
I raise my own leg between hers, and we press together
hard there, her ass wiggling against me, riding my
upper thigh. Her hot spot feels almost like it can
burn me there.

What is it? The full moon? Some strange karma in
the air? Suddenly unexpected women seem ferociously
in heat. I’ve been active, hoping, trying for so many
years to have something resembling a sex life — with
mixed success. Now, I’m almost passive, and they are
coming to me. It’s unexpected, and though pleasurable
a little disconcerting too. Like staring out at the
ocean for years, never being able to go in it, then
suddenly having freedom and plunging in, only to be
rolled by the power of the waves.

Tamara and I kiss, grope, twist, and wiggle. Some-
one pulls my boxers off — it may have been me. Some-
how in all this, I wind up on top of her. I feel a
surge of lust being released, somewhere. There’s a
pause, mainly because she slows down for a few moments.
She looks up at me.

“Fuck me.” she says, softly. Then, “Fuck me.”
again, this time with the emphasis on the first word.
She says it very distinctly, and clearly. I move to
comply, even as I reflect that there are others in
the house, and almost certainly they could hear her
say that, if not the thrashing that preceded it. But
still, what is one to do? By this time, I’ve been
heated to the point where I really couldn’t care less.
At one time or another, I’ve heard most of them making
love. Certainly Matt and Janet, to say nothing of
Jerry (which is yet another story).

My tiny lover spreads her legs wide for me. Usual-
ly, I’m in favor of a long, slow, sensual buildup. But
this feels like an emergency, so I do the appropriate
thing. Without hands, I press myself up to her pussy,
and probe gently for the softest, most yielding spot.
It’s easy to find, and easy to slip inside, and so I
do. But oh my! She’s so tight, a wave of pleasure
sweeps over me as the head pushes past the outer lips.
I pause, briefly, to get control, but she doesn’t want
a pause, and pushes up, to get more of me inside her.
I take her in my arms and kiss her, to distract her;
then press slowly, deliberately, deeper inside. It’s
an easy glide; tight, smooth, and easy. She moans
into my mouth just as I feel my balls nestle up against
her lips. Fully socketed. We both lie there, still,
panting in mutual pleasure.

It just feels so good. So indescribable. A feel-
ing of thickness, yes thick, filled, overflowing with
a deep-seated lust. Impossible, now, to even stay
still inside her for long, so I hold out until the
intense feeling subsides a little (for greater con-
trol), then pull out, slowly, until the just the head
is touching her, then push back in, as slowly as I can,
which isn’t very, since every nerve is begging for the
friction to heat up.

Soon, we are basically fucking like animals.
There’s simply no other honest way to describe it.
The bed squeaks and groans. Anyone nearby, even
behind the closed door, is getting an earful. We
try, somehow, to be quiet with our lungs, but as our
heads are together such that my mouth is against her
ear, and vice versa, every pant and moan and grunt
seems loud. But there’s no stopping us. If the earth
opened up right now, we’d probably keep on fucking on
the way down.

She’s not shy — she meets me heave for thrust.
Her arms wrap around my back, and her legs around my
waist. I have a wriggling, trashing, moaning and
panting woman attached to me fore and aft. But all I
can think of is the feeling on my cock, the friction,
the sweet sliding. Again and again. I know I’ll come
soon, but don’t care.

Still, she beats me to it. Her squeeze suddenly
gets tighter, and her legs unwrap and plant on the bed.
An agonized groan escapes her, and I pause briefly, as
is my habit, to feel her coming. Susie would heave up
right now, and it’s half what I expect; but Tamara
belongs to that group which hunches, rather than
heaves. And she does — her hips thrust at me in a
rapid rhythm, her legs against the bed giving leverage.
She throws her head back and holds her breath, and as
the hunches stop she seems impossibly stiff for a
second, before exhaling in a rush, and relaxing.

She lies underneath me, dazed it seems. I don’t
care, and start moving again. The sensation mounts
quickly, and there’s no reason to fight it now. I just
let it happen — I stiffen, push forward, moan, and
feel the pulses as I come up inside her. I seems like
a long one, but after only a few seconds of the usual
unbelievable ecstasy, I too, dazed, relax on top of
her. Our breathing mingles unevenly in the still air.

We lie still, not moving, for some indeterminate
time. The fury in abeyance, for a while, anyway. Our
breathing returns to normal. Eventually, she speaks.

“Finally. A man who likes sex.” she murmurs.

I agree, but don’t say it. I have to wonder if
this is a comment on Paul, or simply a way of com-
plimenting me.

Dreamlike, my mind wanders. A furious encounter,
this, like nothing I’ve felt before. Hurried, but
lusty. Still, all I can think of is the contrast with
sweet Susie, her slow, sensuous way of loving. This
might be all right for a time or two, but that way of
taking your time is more what I like. I wonder if
there’s a way I can try and slow Tamara down.

But it’s not long until hands start to wander,
again. I feel an urge to explore this new territory.
She must feel something along the same lines, and so
it goes. I get up to light a candle, the better to
see details by. And eventually, we end up with her
widespread, and me between her legs, amazed by the
sight. I’ve never seen anything like it before. Every
woman really is different, believe me. Her vulva is
huge for her small body, and spread wetly open in a
range of reddish and vermilion hues. A beautiful
flower. But it’s a fleshy cylinder at the top that’s
unique to me. Where many seem to peak in the forest
of hairs, she has a large protrubence. It’s not her
clit, but a tube of red, shining skin that encloses it.
About the thickness of my little finger, and half it’s
length. I rub it gently, and she sighs. No wonder she
could come so easily from just the stimulation provided
by our coupling.

I think of Susie. She’s so different in her
anatomy there; her clit is tiny, and hidden away. You
could never see it, and it’s even difficult to find
with tongue or finger. She can’t come just from pene-
tration and friction, no matter how long it lasts, she
needs direct stimulation of the hidden pleasure button.
When we make love, my coming inside her is usually
sandwiched in between my oral ministrations to her.
Seldom has anything made my confidence soar more than
being told I was among the very best, even among the
women whom she has had there. Now I know I’m good, and
mostly it’s because I love it so.

I minister to Tamara. As I do, we both hear a
feminine moan through the wall. Janet, my good friend,
and Matt, another good friend. I like to think we
inspired them. I look up at Tamara as another, louder
moan is heard, but she just looks up at me and touches
my head and urges me back down to my duty. Soon she is
sighing, and wriggling a bit (she’s not a good person
at holding still, I’ve noticed). I put my hands on her
hips, hold tight, and lick her strongly, figuring since
the clit is a bit protected I can be less than totally
gentle. She endures this for a while, a short while,
and then with an odd keening sound she thrashes the
little hunches I felt earlier, but this time against my
face.

My beard is now soaked. Soaked in sexy-smelling
juices, almost certainly a bit of mine mixed with hers.
I don’t care, though, and feel happy and warm as we
cuddle together. Once her breathing is normal again,
she offers another comment, this one spoken happily,
joyfully, and not at all whispered:

“Wasn’t that FUN?”

I agree, and want to cuddle some more. But she’s
now seized with a wander lust. That a person who seems
so still, normally, can be so active when aroused is
interesting. She says she wants some water from the
kitchen. I get up, and crack open the door for a look
outside. Darkness: guests are gone. Matt and Janet in
bed, door closed. No noise from there, right now. I
figure I’ll just go in and get her some water, and me
too — my throat is a bit dry. But before I can open
the door, she’s right beside me. So I take the candle,
and hold it up, and naked we creak down the little
hallway towards the kitchen. She walks ahead of me,
and I can’t help but admire the perfection of her body,
firm sexy ass, gorgeous legs, even her back and neck so
delicious as she walks slowly in the edge of the circle
of reddish light.

We’re in the kitchen, whispering, getting glasses
when I remember Bryan (at least) is sleeping in on the
couch. If he’s awake (probable) he’s getting a eyeful.
But so what? We gulp down some badly needed water, and
then she takes the candle from me (dribbling some hot
wax on my foot in the process — ouch) and wanders into
the little dining area before I whisper to her that
someone is sleeping on the couch. “Oooops” she says
rather than whispers, “Don’t wanna go in there.” and we
retreat. She knows she can be seen clearly and fully
from the couch, not ten feet away.

Tamara is normally a quiet person, who often
doesn’t put much emotion into anything she says. But
now she sounds happy, alive, vibrant. We wander back
down the hall, and into the bathroom. I hold the
candle for her, and she squats and pees, the stream
splashing loudly in the total silence of the house.
When she’s done, she takes the candle and holds it for
me, and I do the same, except standing up of course.
She doesn’t react in any way to this, it just seems
natural and matter-of-fact to be peeing like this in
front of one another. We could turn on a light, but
the candle makes it different, adventurous, fun; like
the way snow transforms a familiar landscape into a
new and exciting one.

Back in the bedroom, she tells me to lie down. I
do, and she climbs aboard me, but backwards. Her
knees beside my chest. I realize what’s happening as
soon as her ass lowers towards my face. No prelimi-
naries, just the direct act of getting into position,
and starting to sixty-nine.

Somehow, I think of Susie again. So different.
Tamara is direct, she wants sex, and that’s what we
do. Just climb on, and start. Susie is so sensual,
so indirect, so creative. We can touch, caress,
explore, kiss, lick, everything for it seems like
hours, driving one another up and up and up until
finally one or another takes charge and makes the
other explode, then switching roles until both have
come. Then resting, talking — slowly, languidly.
That’s my style, really. What’s the hurry? Why be
so quick, so impatient in search of the orgasm? Make
it wait. Enjoy every moment for as long as possible.

Tamara places her pussy on my mouth, and takes my
cock in hers. I lick, she licks. I probe inward, she
sucks. I fill, becoming hard in her mouth. She gushes
against mine. We are, I must admit, a perfect fit. To
do a good sixty-nine, the two bodies must fit together
nicely, otherwise, uncomfortable contortions are re-
quired of one or another partner that detract from the
experience. But this girl is exactly right for me in
the way of physical compatibility. She can sit on my
face and take me in her mouth without bending me back
alarmingly.

Pretty soon the feeling mounts in me, but then
she suddenly climbs off, quickly, hurriedly. She spins
around, clumsily knocking a knee into my shoulder as
she does, but paying no attention, not even a hurried
apology. She wants me inside her again, and straddles
and inserts me without ceremony, and starts immediately
to hump up and down. A little time to adjust, to play,
to feel myself still inside her would be nice, but
she’s too impatient.

I content myself with watching her rise and fall,
eyes closed, breasts jiggling up and down, nipples
small and pointed and hard. I’ve come too recently to
feel any overpowering sensations, so I at least can
relax as she grinds her way to another orgasm within a
few minutes. Even on top, she stops rising and lower-
ing, and hunches her hips back and forth, then falls
down on me chest to chest, and I enjoy the feeling of
her hot little body against mine, my cock buried still
inside her. Until she revives and requests “Do me
doggy.”

Good God. The word “insatiable” is often misused,
so I’m tempted to avoid it here. But we’re getting
close, very close to an appropriate time for it. At
any rate, I’m certainly not going to turn down a chance
to enjoy the spectacular view of her on her knees, that
incredible ass raised to me. So we rearrange, and I
pause (since I’m in control now) to watch, admire,
touch, and caress her sexiest asset before moving up
on my knees and letting her hand guide me into her.

We hump again, in a steady rhythm. The bed groans
and squeaks, again. She moans, and I feel a rising
lusty sexual sensation spreading through me. It may be
possible to come again, I think. But it’s very nice
just getting there, so I keep my eyes open, watching
the action like the camera in a porno movie, inhaling
the hot, musky aroma rising from our friction right up
to my nostrils.

Then, she comes again; grabbing the sheets in a
ball and wiggling her ass as I hold still and let it
happen. I hear a muffled cry and realize she’s biting
the bed. After she stills, I hold her against me
tight, moving ever so gently inside her. But she pulls
away, and falls down. This is it, I think, and I’m in
between wanting to come, and wanting to sleep. I could
accept either, as I crawl up beside her on the small
bed. Her chest is still heaving a bit, but it gradual-
ly quiets. She opens her eyes, and looks at my face,
a dreamy look on hers. But her hand moves to me, and
finds my cock still hard, and caresses it. That de-
cides it: I want to come, and then sleep.

I signal this by moving my hips as she masturbates
me. I doesn’t matter to me how I come, as long as it
happens. Hand, mouth is fine. I can understand if
her pussy is too sore. But no: she rolls to her back,
spreads her legs. Wordlessly, I mount her, and insert.
She welcomes me with hands on my hips, urging me in,
and soon we are fully locked together, yet again.

What time can it be? I think hazily as I start to
make the abused bed squeak, yet again. I’m into it,
but not close to coming. We rock steadily for a while,
almost soundlessly except for the bedsprings. The
sensation starts to mount again, and I’m enjoying it
deliciously as she starts to heave and wriggle beneath
me. My elbows are on either side of her head, and her
legs are up high, thighs against my sides, bare feet in
the air behind me I’m sure.

Her head starts to shift slowly from side to side,
lips touching each arm in turn, her eyes closed. I
watch her face as we hump, and as she turns to the left
side, her mouth opens and she bites into the skin on
the inside of my upper arm. I can actually see her
teeth take the skin and pull on it. Owwwwww! It hurts.
I jerk my arm away. But it doesn’t hurt enough to
deter me from my goal, and I start to fuck her more
fiercely, while keeping both arms away from her mouth.
She fucks back at me, and for a moment I can feel our
pubic areas meeting forcefully. It’s not my style,
not my style at all, but I do come in a great thunder-
ing seizure, the power of it sending the room reeling
around my head. Somewhere below I feel a violently
writhing body.

…I awaken, it seems, slumped over her, still
inside her. Our bodies are slick with mutual sweat.
Somewhere in the muddle of glowing sensations, I can
feel the small sting of the bite on my inner arm. But
I don’t care, and just lay there, until I doze off.

But not for long. As soon as the sun begins to
lighten the eastern sky, she’s up, working her way out
from under me, waking me.

“I have to go now.” she says.

Dazedly, sleepily, we both pull on our clothes.
She needs me to take her home. As we get into the car,
I realize I don’t know where she lives, and ask for
directions.

“Take me to Paul’s apartment.” she says.

Yes, I’m stunned, and ask her if she’s sure. Yes,
she is, and determined in her voice. I drive her there,
and we speak not a word. Not one.

Paul lives on the second floor. She gets out of
the car, says goodbye, and in the early dawn light
walks up the stairs, turning once and only once to look
at me.

Susie would not leave me like this. She would
never use me like this.

(I can’t imagine, even when I try, what happens
between them this morning. I only dimly sense that I
will almost never see her again, and then only once,
in the arms of another man (a stranger) outside a
Hallmark store. She will see me then, and give me a
little smile in such a way that he does not see it.
She will never return any of the calls I will make to
her. Paul never speaks of her again, and I do not ask.)

* * *

A waning half-moon, swimming under Jupiter in a
bright clear October night, maybe an hour after mid-
night.

Two identical glasses of white wine, posed on the
tiny crate that pretends it’s a table, on Susie’s
porch. The two of us, our nakedness bundled in two of
her robes against the chill of the night. Talking,
relaxing, watching God’s casually spectacular display
of thousands of alien suns sparkling in the crisp,
dark, silent night air.

The bruise from the bite on my arm is still there,
but no longer hurts like it did for days afterwards.

Even the crickets and creek frogs are tired and
quiet, it seems. We’ve discussed some cosmic things,
and now the conversation gradually drifts to something
closer to home for us: orgasms.

How they feel, and how impossible it is to describe
it. The best ones we remember, and how few we actually
can recall individually of the many, many we have en-
joyed, both together and with other lovers and friends,
and of course, alone. Then about faking it, and how
both women and men can do this, and sometimes do. She
admits she used to, feeling inadequate because she just
couldn’t get there with a man inside her, but they
almost all seem to expect it, their manhood tied
ridiculously to the power of their hard cocks to pro-
duce a spasm in a woman. I amuse her by telling of
the times I’ve faked it. She really didn’t know men
could, or would. She also thinks men’s orgasms all
feel the same, every time. But like women, we (or at
least I) have larger, or smaller ones, in many varie-
ties. True, we always ejaculate, but that doesn’t mean
the feeling is always the same.

We discuss what makes a better one. Mostly, it’s
the buildup, not hurrying, charging up a head of steam
before letting it blow. But not always, I have to
admit. There have been times when after hours of
exquisite foreplay the actual orgasm was not as spec-
tacular as some others that were induced quickly. She
agrees, that it’s only partially under our control, and
fortunately even the lesser ones are simply wonderful.

The turn in the conversation towards sexual themes
means an impending resumption of activity, you can be
sure. Verbal foreplay is a isn’t a lost art. But she
offers something new, as usual.

“Betty says if she puts her finger in the right
place, she can feel me come.” she remarks.

“Really?” I am intrigued. Feeling a woman come is
one of my quests. I mean, feeling something that can’t
be simulated. Heaves, hunches, trembles, tightening of
vaginal muscles — all are typical. But that’s not
what Susie means, I suspect.

“I’ll show you.” she offers, and we retreat inside,
leaving the moon to its own devices. Robes discarded,
she takes up a position in one of her stuffed chairs,
legs draped over the arms. I take up a position on the
floor in front of her. She’s spread wide, but only
beginning to be aroused. Her vertical smile is but a
narrow strip of dark red in the hairy valley.

I could arouse her fully with a few licks, but I
take it as a challenge to open her flower up by words
alone. I ask her about how she and Betty discovered
the place where her come could be clearly felt. She
describes the two of them, in a chair like this (maybe
this one), with Betty experimenting, searching for her
G spot, which they’d both read about but had never
experienced. With her fingers on the upper part of
the vaginal wall, where the G spot is supposed to be,
Betty was rubbing gently while licking Susie’s clit.
The internal activity didn’t seem to have much effect,
but the tongue work did, and when Susie came, Betty
could feel the little contractions deep inside with
her finger.

Telling this, in her slow, languid southern style,
Susie keeps her legs open for me, only inches away. As
she talks, losing herself in the memory, her vulva
begins a deliberate but visible and exciting trans-
formation. The hairy sides part under the gentle
swelling, and the reddish lips inflate outwards
revealing lighter and deeper hues. Pink, red, tan and
white, and at the center a set of folds that grows
moist as I watch, feeling my own cock grow and harden,
untouched.

That words and thoughts alone could do this is
unique, and exciting. Obvious and not uncommon, but
still unique and exciting — like that starry nightly
display that is both familiar enough to not be noticed,
yet stunning and incredible when you understand what
it really means.

“You want to try it?” she asks, anticipating my
question.

My answer is to insert my tongue into that place
where the moisture seems to be coming from, and then
to work it all out and around until the whole landscape
is painted with clear honey and saliva, gleaming in the
candlelight. She just leans back, as I imitate Betty,
inserting a finger, then two, and licking gently up
above where they go inside her, finding that little
nub already hardened.

I work gently but steadily, moving the fingers a
little, but keeping the fingertips up against where the
G spot is supposed to be. Everything is warm, slick,
musky, sexy, beautiful. I hear sighs and little moans
up above me. My free hand goes up to her belly and
rubs it, but really it’s there to help hold down the
inevitable heave that I know is coming.

I love this, I really, really do. It’s just as
wonderful to give such pleasure as it is to receive it
(as long as you’re sure your turn will come, of
course). She climbs higher, higher. I recognize all
the familiar symptoms, although predicting the actual
moment of the explosion is difficult. I just keep up
the steady rhythm, tongue on clit, over and over and
over. Her legs tense, and I know it’s near. An intake
of breath almost desperate signals the eruption, and
her legs flex up to push her split into my face. I
hold her as still as I can, and wait for the moment.

And I feel it, I feel it! Gently, like the flutter
of butterfly wings, right under my fingertips: pulse…
pulse-pulse-pulse-pulse-pulse. The same rhythm of my
own spasms when I come! One long tightening, then a
series of rapid little pulses. Incredible. No pos-
sible way to fake that, it’s too deep, to fast, too
regular. The spasms stop after only eight or ten, and
then her hips relax back down into the chair. I look
up at her in wonder. I’ve never felt anything like that
before. When she opens her eyes she asks if I felt it,
and I reply in wonder that yes, yes, yes I did.

She lays me on the chair, and sucks my cock until
I come in her mouth.

Before I can say it myself, she remarks impishly
“I could feel you too!”

“Smartass.” I murmur.

* * *

After that, she says it’s time for bed. That means:
it’s time for me to go. No matter that I drove an hour
or more up here to be with her, and have to drive an
hour home at 2 AM. Staying overnight is forbidden.

Foolishly, I ask why. I’ve often been tempted, but
never so bold as to ask, fearing to upset something
delicate.

She looks at me as one who has had some suspicion
confirmed.

“I don’t really know how to say this, so I’ll just
say it.” she says, after a considerable pause. (Mental
note: when someone starts a statement like this, noth-
ing good ever follows it, no matter how gentle their
tone is.)

“What we do is fun, and I love it, but it’s just
for fun, can you understand? Do you understand? It
doesn’t mean anything else, it *can’t* mean anything
else. Are you OK with that?”

“Sure.” I say, but I fear a slight tone betrays me.
It’s hard to admit it to myself, but I do want it to
mean more.

“I just need to be clear on that, very clear. It’s
important.” she continues. I agree. I surely don’t
want whatever we have to stop, even if this is all it
ever gets to be. But her look is stern, and I regret
asking the question.

We part with a hug, and my thanks for the com-
panionship, the wine, and the sex. I drive home,
alone under the starry night.

(No matter how I deny it to myself, the mistake
of asking about staying all night was fatal. I will
call her again, we will talk, and she will dodge all
my efforts to get together. From here on, I’ll never
see Susie again, try as I might. I doggedly deny to
myself it matters, I insist I only miss the sex. But
it is pain: it hurts, it numbly and relentlessly hurts.

As I left Jeanne, as Paul and Tamara hurt each
other, so Susie hurts me. We are all bouncing through
our lives without a map and with very few clues,
colliding with each other, feeling the sparks of
pleasure, and of pain. We smile, we laugh, we cry, we
are kings and queens, blunderers and fools. Our fears
rule us even as our hopes pull us forward. Everyone
looking for a safe shore on an endless sea, we strug-
gle, and we learn.)