by Gwen Masters
(01/18/06)
We probably shouldn't be doing this.
There are so many other things we could be doing. The football game is about to start. The phone just rang. Deer are walking right underneath your unoccupied tree stand. We haven't had breakfast. The hamper is full of laundry. Your Tahoe is parked in the way of the garbage truck.
You are between my thighs.
It is your favorite place to be. You said that to me long before our first time, and I didn't truly believe you until you were there, your confident tongue working wonders. The sounds that came from you were different than the sounds you make at any other time. I know, because we have done so much by now. Almost everything. And you moan in that certain way only when you are between my thighs, my clit between your lips, your tongue flickering across it in that way you taught me that I liked.
I didn't know, before you, that I liked it that way. I didn't know what I liked. I hadn't found a man who loved to do the things you love to do, no one who had put my pleasure before his own and in doing so found a deeper satisfaction than an orgasm. I didn't know men like that existed.
But you exist. Oh, yes, you do. And right now you are between my thighs and my hands are in your hair and you are moaning on my clit. The vibration rolls through me and my hips buck and you patiently move with me. You will not stop. I know this. Because I know this, I can relax and open my legs wider and arch my hips. You would never dream of stopping, even if it took hours.
It takes less than ten minutes.
You rise up above me while I am still trembling, while my hands are tingling and my legs are weak. My knees are open for you and you slide between them. Your hands are on my face and your tongue is running over my lips. I can taste myself, that taste you love so much, the sweet sultry seductiveness of it. You moan into my mouth and it sounds like my name.
Then you are inside me, your cock reaching that point so deep that I can hardly breathe for the sheer perfection of it. Never has a key fit so sweetly into a lock. When I slide my hands down your back you groan, and when I squeeze your hips tight and pull you into me you get even harder, spreading me open a little wider, touching me a little deeper. You know I love this part.
It's my almost-favorite moment.
You look down at me. You take my hands in yours and hold them tight. The bed underneath us is soft and the sunlight peeks around the corners of the shades. Your body is hot, so amazingly hot inside me that I can imagine it warming me from the inside out. I feel it, in fact, as the warmth spreads into a tingle. That tingle spreads through my limbs and by the time you begin to move I am moaning in mindless pleasure. You watch every moment of it flicker across my face and for the first time in my life the thought of hiding, the thought of sharing too much, the thought of keeping a bit of myself for only myself -- those thoughts never once cross my mind.
The only thing that crosses my mind is you.
You tremble as we do this. I am almost too tight, sore from what we did last night, and I revel in the feeling of your hardness reminding me with every thrust of all the other things we have done. I touch you lightly and you respond in an instant, your body a canvas of sensation to be discovered one slow shiver at a time. There are goosebumps on your arms and sweat on your back. Your kiss is sure and confident. You have complete trust in my desire for you.
I am reminded of the first time you kissed me, the tentative reaching of your lips against mine, the way you couldn't breathe for the anticipation of it. Your arms were like steel bands around me, holding me tight against you even while you shook with uncertainty of how much I would want, and how fast I would want it. Your heart pounded just as hard as it is right now, but your kiss tasted different. Then it tasted like you, and only you, but now it tastes like me.
I love to kiss you any time, but I especially love to kiss you like this.
Long after that first sweet taste in the kitchen, when I said to you that I couldn't wait to get to the bedroom, that I hardly believed it took us as long as it did, you laughed that private laugh and said you wanted to run down the hallway to find the bed and take me down on it with you. When it comes to this, we always think alike.
How long ago was that? It could have been years and it could have been minutes. Time flies when you are having fun, but time is nonexistent when you are in love.
And suddenly my thoughts are snapped back to the present, because there it is -- the moment when you slide over some secret edge, when your eyes drift closed and your thrusts become harder, more deliberate. I watch your face then, knowing this feels good but knowing I won't come again so quickly, and the fact of that pleases me in a sweet, satisfied way. I want nothing more than to see the whole of the climax. I want to feel you push hard, deep, the claiming more important than anything else. I want to hear the sound of it, the way you say things at that moment that you don't remember saying later, the way the haze of pleasure turns your gentle voice into something harsh, rough and demanding. I want to watch your face while you lose yourself. Or find yourself. Or both.
I don't want to be distracted by my own pleasure. I want to watch yours.
You don't worry that I might not come with you. You know the give and take, the push and pull, the equality of pleasure. I whisper into your ear all those things you already know. You are the best lover I have ever had. You make me feel worshipped. You make me feel special even when you do something so simple as say my name -- that way, yes, that way. Do that again. That way only you do. And do that, too...yes. Yes! Let go for me and into me, as deep as you can.
That is my favorite moment.
I could tell you what you look like. Perhaps I could. I could describe the look in your eyes or the way you moan or the way your hands become so lost in pleasure that I know later I will find small, delicious bruises. I could tell you what it was like, but inadequate words diminish what is dearest to our hearts. For some things there are no words.
It is a Saturday morning in October, and we are right where we need to be.
