Intuition.
It's a funny thing. Sometimes, it's spot-on accurate. At other times, a misconception can be rather drastically awkward, at best.
Occasionally, however, when things aren't always as they seem, it is vitally important to adapt to circumstances, abandon the false confidence of intuition, and plunge valiantly forward. Especially so in a climate of escalating sexual possibilities.
This is the beginning of such a saga. It would teach me the meaning of dominance and submission, and how easily interchangeable the roles can be, if both partners are willing to adapt and adjust.
As we sat at dinner together on our first date, I sat and watched her and commended myself on my due diligence. She was indeed lovely. No, gorgeous, really, in an innocent, preppy, yet classically beautiful way. Intelligent, though reserved and apparently shy. Almost like a fragile fawn. I guessed that somewhere in the not-too-distant past, there had been a deep hurt in her life, something she was hiding. I wanted to learn more, but realized that discovery would have to be nurtured with this particular woman, trust would have to be earned.
All of that didn't abate the bulge throbbing in my suit trousers beneath the table. Every time I focused on her wet, warm mouth sucking a shrimp, every time I caught a whiff of her intoxicating scent, every time I gazed at her bright red lips curled around the rim of her wine glass, I got harder and harder. I was a firm believer, through many pleasant surprise experiences, that the old adage of 'the saint being the hottest fuck' was true. Actually, it wasn't an old adage at all. I made it up. But, hey, old adages have to start somewhere, right?
There had been nothing yet that had even hinted at R-rated or X-rated banter. All conversation thus far was purely diplomatic cordiality, despite the unmistakable, underlying hint of sexual tension. Then, as is often the case, a chance occurrence presented the opportunity.
Keri dropped her napkin from her lap and leaned under the table to get it. Since we were well into our second bottle of merlot, she fumbled for it for a few seconds longer than normally necessary, causing me to swivel uncomfortable in my own seat, knowing that her face was perhaps just a foot or so from my pulsing member.
She finally emerged from below, her face a beet red from embarrassment, which only served to stiffen my manhood, if possible. You see, another adage that I made up is that if a woman blushes in your company, it's a sure sign of attraction, a mating call if you will. An astute male who heeds the call will inevitably be rewarded by acting upon this subtle involuntary signal.
Keri wrinkled her cute little nose, the freckles bunching as she did so, and her eyes averted from my gaze as she placed the napkin back onto her lap, which ironically, was the object of my immediate desire. Lucky napkin.
"Sorry," she almost mumbled. "I couldn't reach it."
I raised my wine glass and held it there until she looked up into my eyes. "Keri, anytime you want to linger under the table until you find what you're looking for is just fine with me."
She raised her own glass and curled that full, pouty lower lip over the rim, her eyes transforming instantly from one of a timid fawn to one of a lioness at prey.
"Thank you. I've been tempted to all night."
It was if a lightning bolt of super-charged hormones shot across the table with one simple sentence.
Within minutes, I had waved down the waiter for the check and threw a few hundred dollar bills down on the table, not wanting to waste another moment at the table. Keri and I couldn't even make it past the outer vestibule until our we embraced in a frantic, hungry locking of tongues, mouths, and lips, augmented by groans and moans and roaming hands. Keri was slightly taller than myself in her 4-inch heels, and my passion and excitement was further heightened by the rare feeling of a woman reaching down to kiss me, grasping my head within her long fingers and pulling me to her hot, inviting mouth.
Speaking of adages, some people say that you can tell how a woman will fuck by the way she moves on a dance floor. True? Well, perhaps. But for my money, a more accurate barometer is how a woman kisses. And, within only a few heated seconds, I can say that no woman had ever kissed me as Keri was kissing me now, and we were still out in public, restaurant patrons coming and going within mere feet of our public display of feverish ardor.
