by C. B. Dylan
(11/07/01)
My lover has come for a visit and we're sipping cold wine and making the small talk that has become our relationship. The afternoon sunlight soaks the hardwood floors of the apartment in rich golden color, and through the bottom of a glass of Chardonnay we're floating in a lazy yellow sea. Uneasy laughs echo in the room as we catch up on our lives, four years removed
from our affair.
Her son is now walking and starting to talk; her husband is well and they are happy. I've become
engaged and hate my job. We've played the same game on every one of our visits. Things ended between us when she moved cross-country to avoid having to choose between me and her husband; her solution solved the symptoms, but never cured the disease.
Now we're sitting in my living room, my fiancée away on business and my lover unexpectedly in town for the weekend. "Dinner?" she asked when she called, knowing I would never refuse the offer. And here we are. She is resplendent in her new professional-mother look: her hair shorter than she ever used to wear it, but more styled; a long skirt and tight sweater chosen purposefully to drive me crazy. Her brown eyes sparkle in the warm light and her little smile beams.
I've cooked, like I always did and now we are forcing ourselves to endure the small talk that we start every visit with. The catching up, the giggles, the required awkwardness. After an hour and a couple of glasses of wine we will reach an equilibrium; wanting to tear each other's clothes off, but knowing that we won't. At that point, the conversation will flow much easier.
But tonight I have one thing on my mind and she thinks she knows what it is, but she doesn't. Since her call, I've been reliving many of the wonderful moments we shared. The first time I realized I wanted to kiss her, but didn't. When we finally did kiss and she unbuttoned a two-piece green business suit to engulf my hard cock between her wonderful breasts before giving me the greatest blowjob I'd ever had. I wonder how her breasts have changed after having a child.
I've been running every carnal milestone we celebrated through my head all day and can vividly
picture so many. The first time we made love; she was recovering from a cold and felt horrible, but we did it anyway. The first time I fucked her in the ass; we were watching a porn video and some young starlet was bent over being reamed by a massive cock and my lover was intrigued and asked me to do her that way.
She knelt over the arm of the couch and presented her full and lovely backside. I lubed up on her juices and slowly pushed it inside her tight ass. I could hear her grimace as she pulled away from my hard cock. "Wait," she said softly, "give me a minute." Then she pushed back as I tried to enter her and my cock popped right in and she let out the softest, most delicious moan.
I will never be able to get over the way she would ask me, very softly, while we were getting it on: "Please?" And knowing what she meant, I would say, "Tell me what you want." Then, she would almost whisper, "Please, fuck me in the ass." She loved it so much and I haven't ever found anything hotter than the sound of a woman begging you to fuck her in the ass.
So now she looks back at me as I smile and thinks that she knows what I'm thinking about, but really she doesn't. It is more than just the curiosity of wondering how things would be between us now, wondering if I could make her come again and again, like in the old days. No, it's been years since I last saw her naked and the only thing that I really want to see right now is the scar from the c-section delivery of her son.
I know it's there, a reminder of the great sacrifice all mothers make to bring a child into the world and the mysteriousness of this lovely new imperfection on her familiar body is driving me crazy. How big is it? What does it look like? Is it smooth? Is it a railroad criss-cross like the scar on Frankenstein's forehead? My cock throbs at the thought of her naked body with this new adornment; a man made orifice forever closed.
I think about asking her to show me, I know she would. She would push her skirt down a bit and pull her shirt up exposing a glimpse of her tummy and say, "See here it is." She would run a finger along the little line running like a thin little mountain range above that valley I know so well. I would want to get a closer view and would move over next to her, feeling the heat from her body as her breathing increased at my proximity and her state of exposure.
I would move my hand closer, noticing the skin around her neck beginning to get red and blotchy, the way it used to when she was really turned on. My index finger would move closer and ever so slowly touch her warm skin and then run along the soft line adorning her once familiar body. The sharp breath she would take at first contact would be audible and her skin would seem on fire as my finger moved slowly across the sensitive flesh.
Her nipples would be so hard after that touch; visible through her sweater and bra. If I slid my
hands between her thighs, I know her panties would be soaked. Instead, I'd move my face closer to see how the skin looked up close. I'd swallow and ever so slowly, part my lips and my tongue would reach out to touch one side and slowly move along the length of this virgin territory, leaving cool moisture behind.
Nearing the finish, I know she would be soaked and begging for relief from just the touch of my tongue on this new and intimate area. If I continued, I know she would gladly end up bent over the arm of the couch and softly moaning, "Please," in that wonderful voice I haven't heard in so long and when I told her to tell me what she wanted, she would.
Instead, the alarm sounds on dinner and I get up to go serve it. She smiles back thinking she knows what I'm envisioning and, who knows, maybe she does.
