by Adrianna de la Rosa
(04/17/02)
She had spent years hiding herself away from all the different lovers that she had had. With him it was different. She wanted him to know every inch of her. Everything. Perhaps she risked this because some aspects of this affair were safe to her if she knew it would go nowhere. The whole thing existed under the moonlight, as if inside an iridescent bubble.
He knew all about women. She suspected he had had hundreds by the way he made love, and this may or may not have been true. He told her so many clinical things about what she was experiencing. She never knew she could get so swollen down there. It was the way he kissed her for hours. He would tease her mouth as if he were going down on her. He made her gasp and pant like a fish out of water, and her whole body throbbed and rippled up against his in the throes of something that made her want to bleat or squeal, except she didn't.
This would have given him far too much power over her. He knew about that spot inside, and where it was and how to find it and stroke it with a series of movements that undid her, tapping. The first time he did this she was on fire for hours, and at work she sat with her legs widely spread and thought about the burning sensation there.
That particular night she had gotten one of those little honey bears, and because he said he didn't like sticky things, she had spread this honey all over herself down there to annoy but also excite him at the same time. He always had a hard-on for her, and this night it was immense -- poking up and out of his bikini underwear that always made her laugh because it was so continental to wear these and so unlike jockey shorts or boxers. And now he was protruding toward her, stiff and succulent as he licked and licked the honey off of her. But he witheld his penis from her and instead would only stroke her with his fingers over and over and over, rubbing and tapping against that secret spot inside of her, and he had her and he knew it, and she knew this from his eyes and not a word passed between them, only soft animal groans and small noises, and she surprised herself to know that these were her own sounds and he was playing them and making a form of music all over her body.
She wanted him to look at her down there, really look at her lips as he played with them. This was dangerous because it played close to an edge where he might have all the power, and she was too open and yet she wanted his eyes to take this in from a very close distance, and so once they did this. She had gotten him a really marvelous cigar, very long and very thick. She asked him to insert it into her because this was so very, very wicked, and she wanted it to be so soaked with the scent of her that when he smoked it later he would have her all over his fingers and curling up into the smoke. She opened her legs very wide, and lying on her back she felt him insert it, and it was very stiff and hard and he kept on twisting and pushing it into her and his eyes were inches from her glistening wet lips and she loved the fact that he was watching them as she arched up and back and felt it slide thickly into her. She did her best to fuck this cigar right in front of his very eyes, and she would have done all kinds of other bad things with him, anything that he had wanted, really, because this was how she felt. She wanted every nasty wicked thing. There must have been something rippling in the collective, because the President had done something like this too, right at the same time. She thought about the sudden resurgence of cigars in the country. The patriarchy getting a hard-on, she guessed.
But she didn't care. She liked the feel of his eyes upon her. She liked him to see the effect that he had on her lips down there, and he loved it. He loved to see everything. This is how they had each other. Poetry and gazing. Gazing that became poetry.
Man in the Moon is a continuing series.
Man in the Moon
Man in the Moon: 2 Baths
Man in the Moon: Lace
