Dinner and a Mating

Emma reached out to me through a social media platform. During the subsequent three months, our interest in one another mutually grew. She lived in Denver and me in Memphis which stunted our relationship's growth. Though we traded stories, photos, video calls and came to appreciate one other's counsel, gaps remained. Our minds fill in the voids that exist in our relationship with another person. Did I know what she was like in person? No. But I imagined it.

Emma had a powerful effect on me emotionally. Adrenaline surged through my body whenever I saw she read one of my chats, my heart racing each time. My now ex-wife doused that feeling five years earlier when, after a marriage of seven years, she carried on a cyber-affair with three different men. I never recovered. I never believed I could trust again. Yet, here I was, experiencing those feelings again. That elation from Emma's attention never faded.

Lack of physical presence created a wall which no other form of communication could breach. There simply was no more room for us to advance together unless we actually could be together, in the same room. We needed to touch each other, we needed to smell each other, and we needed to taste each other. Only then could she and I know if something truly existed between us or if our minds simply filled in the blank spots with what we desired. We needed to meet.

I flew into Denver on a summer Tuesday evening. From our fifteen thousand foot approach, the sun still shown across the horizon. But as the plane descended towards the runway, the Rocky Mountains' shadow swallowed us up along with a darkening landscape. A rough bump and dull thud announced our arrival to the 737's occupants. My heart rate picked up and palms ever so slightly moistened at the thought of finally meeting the women with whom I had an electronic relationship.

Emma cooks. And when I say she cooks, I mean she really cooks. Pictures of her dishes and reactions from those who sampled her cuisine raved. So, when we agreed to meet, a meal at her apartment seemed to be a natural fit for our first face-to-face. Sounded scrumptious, but I had to help too.

I checked the Lyft app on my phone to see where my ride was.

"Five minutes. Almost perfect timing."

In the month before our rendezvous, Emma and I worked through the logistics of our meet. No, she would not pick me up at the airport. Taking the risk of physically being with someone you didn't know in your apartment was bad enough, but to then be stuck in Denver's I-70 traffic with them too? Nope. I said I would arrange a ride to Emma's condominium. The challenge in setting that up was one of scheduling. Weather, mechanical problems, and thick air traffic all made scheduled arrival times somewhat of a crap shoot. Instead once I arrived at my layover in Kansas City and new my flight was leaving on time, I secured my ride,

The map on my phone showed my ride's location, just up the street. A clean, gun-metal gray, Honda Accord crept along in the drop-off lane, its driver scanning each of us standing along the curb. Hanging from the passenger visor, a pill shaped LED sign, "lyft" flashed in fuchsia colored letters.

I waved and the Accord stopped, its passenger window magically rolling down.

"James?"

"Yep."

"Bags?"

"Nope."

"Front or back?"

"Front."

I heard the passenger door's car lock click open. I pulled the door handle and carefully swung it open, watching the bottom edge. Accords had low clearance and more than once, I'd scraped a passenger door across the top of a curb because the driver pulled too close. I didn't need any driver drama marring my night.

I flopped into the passenger seat, thankfully, the last rider had already pushed it as far back as he could. The driver, a thirty-something woman with a helmet of curly blond hair and dimples. Not stunning by any means, but she exuded an aura of comfort and acceptance. If she were lesbian, I guessed she was pretty popular in that crowd. She flipped on the left turn signal and eased out into the travel lane.

"I'm Renni" she said.

"Hi. I'm James. Been a busy day?"

I kept a mental catalog of stock conversation questions. it wasn't that I was just trying to fill the silence. I actually did care about the answer because whatever Renni told me might lead to a follow-up question. I liked listening to people tell their stories.

"Your my third since I came on. Just dropped a couple off at a different airline so picking you up was convenient. Where you coming in from?"

"Memphis."

"Staying long?"

"Just till tomorrow."

"Need a bottle of water? Cooler with them in the back seat."

She spoke with a relaxed tone that could put even the jumpiest rider at ease. Good communications made for better tips. In January, Renni started her third year with lyft. Another tactic to increase tips and improve ratings included offering your passenger a snack or something to drink.

"No, but thank you."

Last thing I needed was to arrive at Emma's already anxious and with a full bladder.

Renni smoothly merged us onto Peña Boulevard, heading south. Prior to picking me up, she'd already geolocated Emma's address, locking it into her iPhone. Siri offered helpful directions along the way. We merged onto I-70 westbound, and headed into Denver proper. Renni and I chatted about a variety of topics that somewhat surprisingly included sports. Rockies stink and probably won't finish above this year. Broncos lost their way. Elway was a great quarterback but he's an ownership disaster. Maybe the Avalanche will get better next season.

She stopped in front of a four story brick and stucco building. An American flag hung over the A-frame shaped entrance.

"Thanks for the ride" I said, probably a little too enthusiastically.

"Enjoyed driving you. You want me to wait?"

"No. I'm OK."

"Take care care and have a great night. I start at three tomorrow afternoon if you need a ride back."

"Thanks."

Renni pulled away and I swiped my phone's screen up. I paid the lyft fee and included a twenty-five percent tip. it was a nice ride.

A set of locked doors and intercom sat atop for low-rise concrete steps. Street lights snapped on, buzzing like an irritated cicada.

On the building's northwest corner, above the fourth floor appeared to be a penthouse, complete with sliding glass doors and large deck.

I didn't bother with the building directory. Emma texted me her number.

I pressed the numbers.

"2-6-6-2."

Each button press resulted in a screeching beep from the speaker. Silence, then the relieving buzz of a phone ringing. There was a loud click as someone answered the phone and I heard a familiar voice. it was Emma.

"Hello?"

"It's James. Just go here."

"SO FANTASTIC TO KNOW YOU'RE HERE! Quick, open the door when you here it buzz. I can't WAIT TO SEE YOU! Press five on the elevator."

The door's lock buzzed, sort of like the street light's sound, only much closer. I pulled on the glass door handle and walked inside. Conveniently, the elevator faced the front doors. Hitting the Up arrow, the mechanical doors groaned open as metal collided with metal. Surprisingly, the inside was quite nice. Oak panels with mirrors inset lined the upper half of the lift.

I pressed "5."

When the doors opened, a beautiful woman stood in the penthouse hallway, wearing a white mid-riff top and black pleated skirt. Her hair auburn hair fell just below her shoulders. I thought I might explode in my pants right there.

"JAMES!"

"Emma!"

We collided into a hug, just outside the elevator's door. At that moment, I knew this could be a REALLY good night.

She broke our embrace first, grabbed my hand and led me into her place.

"Come on it! I'm ready for us to start cooking."

You know when there is just a chemistry there between two people? Sure, sometimes you can feel it through an online conversation, phone call, or video chat. But the problem with those encounters is that you don't get to experience the raw energy of a person. You don't know if what you are is compatible with what they need. A man and woman are each like a magnet. If you both carry the same charge, you repel. Unlike charges attract. Emma and I definitely attracted.

"Set your back down here in the hall. Let's go into the kitchen."

I dropped my satchel next to a walk-in closet door as she pulled me by my hand into the kitchen.

"Your timing is perfect! Will you marinate the steaks?"

Two filet mignons sat in a glass dish. Next to it, a small bowl filled with some brown liquid and a lime green brush.

"What do I do?"

"You just pour the this over the steaks and then use the brush to make sure the tops and sides are fully seasoned."

I picked up the brush and she gently wrapped her hand over mine. Guiding the bristles into the juice and then painting the steak's stop.

We hadn't even gotten to the steak and already blood rushed into my penis as it painfully pushed against my briefs, unable to escape its confinement. My body automatically inhaled a deep breath, reacting to the dopamine flooding my brain's emotional centers. It was electric.

I could see Emma felt it too. She shifted her legs ever so slightly, pulling them together and rocking ever so slightly from side to side, like she had an itch that she couldn't quite scratch.

Her hair smelled like lavender and felt like satin when the ends brushed across my biceps.

"There," she paused just a moment, "you've got it," then turned back towards the cutting board where she deftly handled a paring knife, slicing peppers, onions, and mushrooms and placing them in a pan to cook.

I finished painting the steaks and turned towards her to ask what I needed to do next. At that same moment, Emma reached over and grabbed a plastic hair "claw" off the counter, swirling her locks into a bun. She held its opened jaws again the bun's top and slowly released the handle, allowing ts jaws to grab hold.

She saw me watching.

"I should have my hair up when cooking. Having you in the kitchen with me got me a little flustered."

Her cheeks turn a bright pink, flushed with either embarrassment or excitement. I couldn't tell. She turned back to the cutting board to finish her prep. Emma's hourglass shape, bare back, and skirt that only covered her upper thighs--I simply resist any longer.

Her back to me, I crossed the distance between us in a single step. I pressed myself against her, lovingly pinning Emma between the counter and my frame.

"What are you doing," her last few words falling to a whisper as she tried to speak while her body tried to inhale. She immediately realized exactly what I was doing.

Emma didn't resist.

As I nuzzled her, she tilted her head to expose an inviting portion of her delicate neck, the one she wanted me to enjoy. I rubbed my cheek and face against it, pulled back, then gently kissed the nape of her neck. I lifted my hands to her sides and using my fingertips, traced the arch of her ribs, just below the lower edge of of the mid-riff top, my hands meeting momentarily in her middle and then went back.

That was a risk. What if she was ticklish? Sure tickling can be fun, but it killed a romantic mood and ruin my night. On the other hand, just that light brush of my fingers across her skin can generate incredible longing. THAT was the reaction I wanted.

When men and women first go through their mating ritual, women often submit to a man's desires in the way of clothes, hair, or makeup. Women use those wishes to seduce and control them. For our first date, I told Emma she could wear a cut off top, thong, and skirt that goes no further down than mid-thigh. No bra allowed. She complied, not because she submitted, but because I unknowingly told her exactly how to control me.

I got lucky. Instead of giggling, the hairs on her arms and neck stood at attention and her nipples strained against the thin top. It took all my self-control to not just reach up and start working them over. She took another deep breath, just as she did moments earlier.

That gap between her top and stomach offered me a clear path to Emma's breasts. I slipped my fingertips under her top and being making concentric circles around each one, slowly spiraling closer and closer to Emma's rock hard nipples. I feel a change in her skin's texture when the pads of my fingers cross the border between fleshy breast and areola. One more tiny lap and when I feel the base of her nipple, I seize each tiny pole, massaging her erect shafts between my thumb and forefinger for just a few seconds. Just as Emma quietly moans, I start to withdraw, spiraling outwards until my hands are back at the base of each breast. I repeat this same technique over and over, teasing you until her anticipation climbed so high, she climaxed just as I brushed her nipples.

Half-sliced peppers lay on the cutting board in front of Emma, awaiting final preparation, but she hadn't regained her composure and Emma's trembling fingers prevented holding a steady knife yet. Carefully, she set the knife aside, then ever so slightly bent forward and placed both outstretched hands flat on the granite countertop.

Emma panted, trying to fill her body's need for oxygen, air whistling over her pursed lips as the wonderfully warm orgasmic pleasure ebbed. While she struggled to regain her poise, the corners of my mouth turned up ever so slightly--the only outward allusion to my satisfaction in controlling Emma's fulfillment. My finger tips drifted down the outsides of her breasts and out from underneath the thin, cotton top and grazed her sides. Emma arched backwards, trying to turn to face me. I denied her, clasping my hands together in front of her, preventing her from facing me.

My cheek buffed her ear and I flicked my tongue against her succulent lobe. Just a quick taste and then I turned and whispered into her ear:

"I think the ingredients are ready to be mixed together."

Emma nodded, sighed, then scooped the piles of vegetables into her still unsteady palms. She dropped each handful into a copper sauté pan with the thin steak slices I carved just minutes before. Speech still eluded her as she tried to catch her breath. Emma reached over and turned a knob on the stove. The gas ignitor's machine gun ticking sound filled the air for just a moment before a muted whoosh of gas catching fire silenced the click. Emma sat the stir-fry laden pan on the burner's black grate. Bending down to look at the flame's height, she turned the knob left to restricted the gas' flow and lower the flame. Twenty minutes of low heat would thoroughly cook our dinner.

"That should be enough time" I thought to myself.

"It looks fantastic" I said.

I wasn't lying. The dish did look fantastic as did the woman standing in front of it.

Emma covered the mixture with a stainless steel lid then turned to face me. She is gorgeous and now it was my turn to momentarily lose my equilibrium. I looked into her welcoming blue-green eyes and I thought my heart beat hard enough to explode from my chest. Goosebumps erupted on my arms and a roar of blood racing through my body filled me years.

Mesmerized by Emma's gaze, tinted with just the slightest lingering uncertainty, I felt my cheeks squeezed against my jaw from her hands strongly pressing against the sides of my face as she guided my lips to hers.

Reflexively, I closed my eyes. The growing power of our emotional connection drives our tongues to wrestle one another, pressing and circling in a long moment of passionate release. Emma breaks the kiss. I try to follow, but she holds my face back. Pulling away, our eyes meet again and I see the satisfaction of her getting a little revenge, teasing then denying me just as I teased and denied her.

Her victory was short lived. I turn my head towards the counter.

"Hey Siri! Set a timer for twenty minutes."

Time for an appetizer. I bend down ever so slightly, dropping my right arm towards Emma's knees and sweep her up. There's a brief yelp of shock and she quickly clasps her hands behind my neck. One-hundred-fifteen pounds is easy for me to manage. I carried her into the living room and gently placed Emma on the couch with me bent over in front of her, standing between her knees. A quick peck and then I immediately kneeled before my queen, prepared to provide her an even greater gratification than the kitchen experience.

"What are you doing?"

I hold my index finger up to my lips then whisper "Shush now. Just relax."

Once again, I rely on just the pads at the tips of my fingers. This time, starting on the inside of each knee. Ever so slowly, I began grazing across the soft skin of both thighs, working toward's Emma's pelvis in a wave pattern, all while gazing at her affectionately.

Her breathing quickens and she laid her head back against the couch's cushion.

Breathlessly she asks, "What about dinner?"

"I'll be done before the meal is ready."

By kneeling where I did, Emma couldn't close her legs and just like the case with her crop top, I had an unobstructed path to her most precious asset. I continued gliding my fingers up her legs and then slowly ran my fingers along the bands of her red thong. Both hands slipped underneath the smooth cloth and my fingers softly stroked her sex's lips. Up and down. Up and down then back up. On this last lap, my right hand slipped over to the top of her vagina and brushed the hood of her most sensitive organ.

She inhaled deeply as I continued to gently rub her clitoris, waiting until the moment it became firm, engorged with blood. Then I begin to retreat, following the exact same path out I took in to deny Emma more pleasure. This builds both her frustration not getting satisfaction and drives a craving for release.

Emma's body tensed with desire as each trip up began and moaned in frustration with each journey back down.

"PLEASE!"

I ignore her plea.

"Hey Siri! How much time left on my timer?"

"You have five minutes left on your twenty minute timer."

Perfect. After my last excursion, my fingers returned to where they started, the insides of Emma's knees. Now, I change my technique. On her right thigh, instead of using my right hand, I use my tongue, but follow the same path upwards towards her special place.

Emma instantly notices the change and her anticipation begins to build.

"Ohhh" she moans.

To this point, I could tease her with my fingers underneath her skirt, not needing to expose Emma's sex. That wouldn't work any longer. When my tongue got to the part of her thigh near her skirt's hem, I used my free hand to flip it up which exposed the lacy triangle of Emma's herring bone thong. This time, instead of slipping my hands under the silky fabric, I push it to the side, making vulnerable her most private area. My tongue approaches the confluence of her thigh and pelvis. I cross that tiny space between leg and labia then work my tongue up and down her lips. With each motion, I feel Emma's muscles tense, begging me to wash her special place.

I do.

With the tip of my tongue, I envelope the nub softly circling and sucking.

"FUUUUUUUUCK!"

I hear you moan between gulps of air. My left fingers easily glide up and down the insides of Emma's vagina, soaked by her body's natural lubricants in preparation for mating.

"I'm going to cum!"

Not yet.

I denied her from reaching that pinnacle of ecstasy. I beat a retreat back down the insides of your thighs, leaving Emma exposed.

"JAMES! PLEASE!"

I hear the character of our simmering vegetable pan start to sound more like a sizzle. That's not good.

I begin another trip towards my appetizer.

"Uuuuhhhh."

Another moan. Through the tip of my tongue, oscillating up her thigh, I feel Emma's muscles tense. She adjusts on the coach, pressing her hips forward. She wiggles in every direction possible, doing everything she can to reach her mountain top, but can't quite get there. She needs me to provide just the slightest boost over the hump.