"Touch me, please. You know so well just how I like to be touched," my baby begged.
Baby was no baby, but she liked it when I called her that. She was five feet nothing of sheer blonde hotness - twenty years past being a perfect miniature Barbie, but even more attractive due to the ampleness that time had given her bosom, the gentle curve of her hips, even the pillowiness of her belly. She kept in great shape – athletic calves, sculpted thighs, pumped biceps, defined shoulders. She made a tank top and shorts as sexy as anything most women ordered from Victoria's Secret.
Yes, I knew just how she liked to be touched. Though she was married to another, we had spent decades giving in to the fatal attraction between us. Inevitably, guilt would crush down on her soul, and she would swear off sex with me, sometimes avoiding temptation by not even seeing me. Just as inevitably, she would return, like a moth drawn to a flame.
Because I knew how she liked to be touched, and no other man did. Certainly not her hapless husband.
"Plain vanilla man, not even sprinkles on top," that was how she described her sex life at home.
She said it that way because it made her chuckle. Otherwise sex with hubby was something she preferred not to discuss, or think about, a duty, a chore, a bore. Sex with me was her treat. We had discovered early on that we shared many of the same kinks. Sure, I was more perverse than she would ever dare to be, but that was part of what made our strange non-relationship work. I had enough other lovers to play out my more extreme passions; she had just enough of me to add a swirl of colour to her beige reality.
Today, she was sprawled across my favourite chair, drinking wine at lunch, venting about the world. Her knees were splayed far apart, the soles of her feet touching, demonstrating great flexibility. This tilted her pelvis upward, her tight white jeans caressing the crease of her quim. I wondered which lacy lingerie she wore today.
The spandex in her T shirt held the cotton tight to her chest. Her breasts were lifted toward my eyes. When we had met she had favoured sports bras, which mashed her mounds against her ribs. Working in public service, she thought this would help her chest not be a distraction. After I pointed out that her sensitive nipples almost constantly poked out unrestrained by the Lycra slings, she had switched to underwire padded bras. No more "is it cold or are you just glad to see me?"
I grinned at her from my perch on the couch a foot away. She wanted me to put down my wine glass and lean over, lift the loose bottom edge of her shirt, and run my expert fingers up to explore whatever bra she wore today, my wrists twisting to allow fingers to slide inside lace, cup flesh in palms, teasing erect nipples. She was picturing my head moving in unison with my hands, my lips meeting hers, our teeth parting, our tongues twining.
Instead, I lifted my wine to my lips and took a purposeful sip, allowing my red painted tongue to linger outside my lip, caressing the edge of the glass. If I had spoken at that moment, I would have said, "This is how I lick your clit."
But it was more effective to allow the silence to speak.
Her delicate little fingers were balancing her wine glass on her knee, her nervous desire causing them to tap out a tune, the only sound in the room. Then I became aware of hearing her breathe. This made me look directly at my lover. I loved how her chest heaved in excitement.
So I slowly shook my head from side to side, telling her that no, I wasn't going to touch her. At least not then. Not because she demanded it. Not just because I knew just how she liked it.
She tossed her hair wildly, framing a gigantic mock pout. I grinned. I knew that my baby would not seek release elsewhere, or at least not without my permission. She would not even touch herself without permission as long as I was around – she had open license to self-pleasure in my absence.
"Drink some more wine," I instructed.
She complied, slowly raising the glass to her lips. Just the tip of her tongue stabbed out to taste a drop of bright ruby liquor off the rim. She lowered the glass, rolling that red stained organ along her lower lip. Then she licked all around the rim, her lower jaw slack, her eyes hooded, her brain obviously advanced beyond simulating oral sex on glass. Finally, she tossed her head back, her swan like neck exposed, vulnerable, as the rest of her wine poured into her gullet.
Her arm relaxed, hand with glass dropping beside her on the couch. Carefully, she brought her face forward, mouth open, showing me that her tongue was painted red, speckled with great huge remnant drops of her treat. Neither of us needed to say out loud the thought we shared – but for the redness, she looked like she had just swallowed a load of semen. The red however, suggested something far more daring and violent – she looked every inch the sexy vampire.
I lifted my own glass, drinking deeply, counting slowly to thirty, my eyes never leaving hers.
"I know how you like to be touched, but I still want you to show me," I said as I finished my drink.
She lowered her glass, placing it on the low table between us. As she leaned back into the comfortable sofa, her hand casually slid up under the loose bottom of her top, exposing a tantalizing flash of pale flesh which increased. My attention, however, followed the motion under the sweater. Her right palm cupped her left bosom gently. She paused, grinning.
"Is this what you want?" she breathed.
"What do you want?" I challenged back.
"Touch makes me so wet, you know." Her voice seemed lost in a dream. Her eyes no longer met mine, dancing off into the distance.
My nod was both acknowledgement and permission.
Her arm moved slowly, her hand kneading her flesh. Her shoulders relaxed, her neck flexed, her head dropping back against the upper edge of the couch. Delicate motions suggested that her fingers had slipped inside the bra. I could tell that she had not pulled the bottom away from her ribcage, so knew that it must be one of her fancy underwire styles, and that her nails had eased the inner edge of the cup away from her cleavage, and that her hand was now curled around that flesh from the upper middle, wrist bending to allow her to reach down to her nipple.
Just as slowly as the hand had travelled that far, it withdrew, but only long enough for her to lift that hand to her lips, her tongue carefully extending to lick them until they were dripping wet. Her fingers retraced the journey up inside the bra, and she began teasing her nipples, moving back and forth between them. The motion lifted her shirt enough to expose just a flash of red satin bra.
