-Part 5 / The Finale-
We are still in the living room, sat quietly together in the curves of the wide couch, rehydrating. I am stroking her bare arms as she huddles closer to me than I would have expected from someone so obviously guarded.
It is around about this time when I realise, I have indeed developed a fetish, and not one I would have predicted, considering the filth my brain defaults to on a daily basis. I could of course be wrong, and this might simply be a proximity-hyper-arousal because Green-eyes is just blowing my mind, amongst other areas, but something borne of experience with my own habits tells me this will be a lasting predilection.
My fetish is for *boundaries being broken*, lines being crossed, steps being taken past lines, propriety and decorum. I think back to what seems like hours ago, when I was facing her lacy, black knickers. I think of that moment of anticipation I was savouring. And then I reflect back upon all those horny, frustrated situations I’ve blown in the past by being a motormouthed dickhead, juvenile or unintentionally hurtful or clumsy with other people’s feelings. I resolve on the spot to always be considerate, not for the benefit of my conscience, but because I just don’t want people to be sad or angry because of me.
And this may well tie in with that incredible feeling of acceptance and welcome that comes with sliding those panties down a lady’s legs. That brief window as they reach her ankles and she steps out of them, shedding the separating layer, standing, lying, spreading naked before you. Vulnerable, apprehensive, inviting, excited. And this applies to so many borders travelled across before that. Hands roaming beneath clothing, feeling one another’s literal most private parts. And before that, over the clothes, dry humping, pushing yourselves together, straining at the fabric. Before that, kissing one another’s necks, then lips, rewinding back to that moment when your faces are near and you are both wondering how the other is going to react as you move in. Always that possibility of a No, or it not feeling right or being broken off for some far-reaching personal reason.
And before that is the complex dance that leads you into a kiss, the flirting, the talking, sparring, the movements, the eyes on and off one another. Today has been a succession of these moments, and every one has electrified me. Just to be wanted and desired. Just to be lusted for and *needed*. But again, something prickles at my mind, telling me this encounter means more than just using a young man for kicks.
My stroking has become softer as I have pondered this. I can feel the goosebumps on her skin as she leans into me, catlike. All of a sudden Green-eyes checks herself and seems to pull away from my touch, readjusting her body into a dominant, jutting flex and whispering in my ear…
“Let me take you upstairs.”
I nod emphatically, and follow her from the living room, watching that gorgeous, curvy rump of hers as she climbs the steps to lead me onward. It is darker and less modern on this upper floor, with antique bookcases lining the hall, midnight-blue, roughly-textured walls, doors of oak and a different aroma, smoky and organic. She leads me through a maroon door into a room straight out of Lord of the Rings. It has a four-poster bed in the centre, ivy climbing the buttery yellow walls. Candles already it, throwing out a soft, amber glow. She climbs onto the delicately embroidered, forest-green sheets and pats the area beside her as I approach, closing the door behind me. This is one of those moments. The giddy heart-leap of that walk into a strange lady’s bedroom.
“Now,” she begins, taking my right hand as I climb onto the bed, and guiding me into a crouch in front of her. “I am going to teach you a few things.” She raises my fingers to her mouth and takes the tip of the middle one between her lips. I feel her tongue caress me gently and her incisors impishly bite down. Then, locking eyes with me again and kneeling up with her legs apart, she slowly moves my hand down towards her cunny. “Feel how wet I am again for you,” she breathes. And as my middle fingertip arrives, I can indeed feel her slippery opening blossoming. Her eyes close and she bites her lower lip, before pulling my hand gently but insistently upwards swallowing my entire middle finger. My cock twitches and I feel her internal walls tighten around me. My thumb brushes her clitoris and she gasps softly, lets go of my hand, slowly arching her back and moaning as I begin a guided rhythmic stroking inside her at the same time adding my light, tickling rub across her sensitive, rosy hood.
She straightens her back up, moaning and pulling me ever-more tenaciously, inviting my ring-finger to play alongside the middle. I reach deep inside her and curl my digits, exploratively. There inside, brushing at the very tips, almost out of reach I feel a soft, clustered pad behind her clitoris. This contact makes her eyes widen and she stops kissing me as her mouth falls open. I push and tickle inside and she gasps louder now. Of all things my brain goes to Spider-Man and the finger-gymnastics required to make his web-shooters work. Mary Jane is a lucky lady. I smile with familiarity, now that I have the positioning worked out, maintain the pressure until before long her whole body is shaking and I bring her to an unexpected climax that leaves her flopping back on the pillows, cackling, and once again covering her face.
“You… *have* done your homework,” she vouches after composing herself.
I do NOT mention Spider-Man.
When she gets back up, it is with that assertiveness again, as she turns me about and adamantly pushes my head back upon the same pillows, she had been nestled in. As the fabric and feathers compress under me, they release her fabulous scent. I lie there, gazing at her as she smiles, turns her back and throws one leg over me, straddling my face and giving me a close-up view of her gorgeous bottom.
“I’m going to ride your face,” she announces as her open, slick pussy moves within reach of my mouth. I flutter my tongue obediently around, tasting her nectar. She shivers and grinds herself down. I lick around her lips, thrust inside her and try in vain to reach her clitoris until she works out that’s what I’m reaching for and obligingly bends, letting me hungrily lap at her. I feel her mouth on my cock as she loops us into my first 69, and my hips start to buck as I grip at her waist. I am so massively turned on that I am about to cum into her mouth once again.
Sensing this, she sits up above me once more and pauses, disengaging her gorgeous backside and holding it tantalisingly, mere inches away. I take a breath as she looks down at me, shyly.
“What?” I ask mischievously. Then she murmurs six words, threaded with an uncertainty and embarrassment uncharacteristic for her. Ironically, she absolutely does not need to feel any of this, considering this request is so unbearably hot that it almost make me ejaculate on the spot.
“Would you please lick my asshole?”
“Oh yes,” I sigh and my hands travel back up to her hips, me guiding *her* this time. I catch a glimpse of her tight little balloon-knot, quivering with antici…
…
…
…
-pation.
Her puckered, pink little star like the dot of a lower case i above her labia. And I extend my tongue and drag it upwards from her cunt lips to that folded little dot. She tastes different here; nutmeg and aniseed. I can feel the texture of nerve-endings in her furrows and she throws her head back as I administer exuberantly to her most cloistered of areas. My hands hold her sides as hers grip her cheeks. She pulls them apart, inviting my tongue to delve inside her. It is extremely tight, but every movement seems to produce a positive result. I have imagined this so many times and yet the reality is even more deliriously pleasurable.
“Oh god,” she is crying out. I don’t know how long I have been here, manacled against her, but every imprecise second has been heavenly, and as she reaches her peak, I feel her whole body spasm as her back arches with tension and release.
There is a moment of falling calm.
Quailing, she gently disengages, and almost as though in slow-motion, she settles herself curled like a croissant upon her front, bunching up the sheets and watching me.
“Was that fun?” I ask coquettishly. She nods emphatically.
“Do you know what the French call an orgasm?” She asks, huskily.
“I actually *do* know this; Le petite mort.”
“La, petit mort,” she corrects. “It’s feminine, as you might imagine.”
“The little death.” I translate. She nods again.
“We are always one step closer,” she intones, her expression ambivalent. “-but it is a comforting step, and oh so welcome.” We sit with this as her gaze runs over my body, until she finally asks the question I have been dying for. “Would you like to make love?”
“Yes,” I breathe, and a little wave of accordance passes between us. She uncurls herself, goes to her bedside cabinet and retrieves a condom, bidding me lie back. Tears it open with her teeth and asks me for permission to put it on me. I take a deep breath.
“Please.”
My cock is standing rigidly, sensitive and ready as she approaches, bending to lay the tip of the condom over the head, pinching the reservoir. Then in three slow strokes of her hand she rolls it down my shaft. This sheathe is peach-coloured and indeed scented, and I am of course reminded of my first La petite mort.
She sits back to admire her handiwork before instructing me to get in a kneeling position, leaning back away from her. As I do this, she throws her left knee over me, straddling my waist. I feel my cock touch her soft skin through the peach latex, and shiver as she wraps her right arm around my shoulder to hold me close, adjusting her legs around me.
Meanwhile, her left hand strays between our tangled limbs and I feel her fingers guide my cock. I glance down and see the pink outer lips of her pussy opening for me as a dark, warm wet, tightness slowly envelops. She groans as she takes me into her and slides forward, pushing her pelvis closer and closer to mine as the pressure intensifies.
We are so close. She gyrates her hips and looks me in the eye as the two of us move together. Her countenance is multifaceted, biting her soft lower lip with pleasure, arching her expressive eyebrows as she surveys my face, studying every movement and response. She holds me close and breathes with me as I sigh. Our faces are damp with sweat and our bodies undulate in the candlelight. When she asks me where I want to cum, I tell her the truth.
“Inside you.” Her eyes widen with excitement and for a brief moment the years fall away and there is no gulf of experience between us. “Is that alright?” I ask tentatively, feeling my climax rise, barely controlled, like an animal throwing itself against the door of its cage and feeling it buckle.
“Oh yes,” she croons. And the stars come out above us, as I am lost in her arms, shaking and jolting as I empty myself into her. She drinks me in clutching at my back, crying out long and loud… before she settles in tandem with me and the harmony descends. She rests my damp head upon her shoulder and strokes my hair.
***
It is 1997, I’m seventeen years old and on my way home. I’m sat in a train carriage doing what I always do; listening to my Discman and thinking about sex. The train stops at East Croydon and my music reaches Caught a Lite Sneeze. I close my eyes and my mind drifts back to the evening of my dreams. And when I rouse myself and survey the carriage, she… is there.
Sat across on the far right, she does not acknowledge me. Opposite her is a slender girl maybe a few years older than I am, with dusky skin and striking cinnamon-red curled hair cascading over her shoulders. The girl is listening to what I recognise as a MiniDisc, and I sit in a tantalising agony of apprehension. I am trying to work out a way to strike up a conversation about what she’s listening to, because frankly it takes someone very serious about their mixes to invest in one of these things, and I am genuinely interested.
However, the redhead’s gaze has strayed from the digital readout she was studying and flits to the lady sat in front of her. Green-eyes luxuriates in her seat, as though in a steaming herbal bath, crosses her powerful legs and opens a thumbed paperback of A Spy in the House of Love by Anais Nin. It is only when her right hand strays into the pocket of her cream jacket to retrieve a bar of dark chocolate and lay it down gently on the seat beside her that she finally meets my gaze. She has angled her knee in the direction of the redhead who is definitely looking at her now, and seeing a tremorous thrill race through me, Green-eyes allows herself a clandestine smile.
The End… For Now.
|
