I was afraid he might try to carry me over the threshold and break his back, but he did something even nicer. He opened the door, wrapped me in his arms, pulled me close, closer, kissed me gently and then more forcefully, his tongue meeting mine in a wet sensuous duel. My whole body, tired and worn out as I was, came alive. I pressed my body—breasts, pelvis, mouth—against him, squeezed him, ground into him, felt almost as if I might achieve orgasm right there and then. But his grip loosened, his tongue withdrew, just lingering long enough to lick at my open lips a few gentle times; I realized I was breathing hard, almost climbing up his body, and I let myself back down to earth, or at least to the floor. Opening my eyes I saw that we were in the room, somehow the door had been closed and locked, we were standing beside...the bed. The marriage bed.
I had successfully avoided this for so long. How could this have happened?
Well, it had happened as these things often happen, suddenly and over a long period of time; his love had filled my heart gradually, and I had known I loved him from the moment we touched.
Not from the moment we MET, mind you. I was unimpressed with him at first. Another guy. Another man out to get what he could. And he didn't even have the decency to try to seduce me. He just wanted to talk. But then he didn't talk. So I talked. I told him, little by little and all at once, about my late, unlamented marriage, about the temper tantrums of my ex, about the way I had closed myself off as a means of self-protection, about the way our sleeping together became just that. About the way I woke up one day realizing that the marriage had been over for years. About the battles with the law and the lawyers over how to put an end to something that had already ended. About my blissful, sexless single life. About my determination never to make the mistake of marriage again.
And he listened. For months. And he drank my coffee. And he listened. And he ate my cooking. And he listened. And he played with my dog. And he listened. And he stood to leave and reminded me, as he always did, that if I ever needed to talk he was there for me. But this time he touched my hand as he said it. He touched my hand...little more than a handshake, but...it was more than a handshake. It left me weak in the knees — and wet in the crotch.
And the next time we met — the next time he came over, it was all very different.
There was electrical tension in the room as we cooked together, throwing some stir-fry into a wok and warming up some bread from the local bakery. We studiously avoided bumping into each other, with mumbled apologies accompanying each failure. We ate in near silence, our topics of conversation being how our day had been, and how good the food tasted.
After dinner we sat in the living room, he on the sofa and I in an easy chair, and this time HE talked. He talked about his hopes, his ambitions, the way he wanted to make the world a better place, the way his political career was an extension of his moral being. He talked about the difficulties of campaigning, the ever-present fear of rejection, about how hard it was to realize that even with the landslide victory he had enjoyed in the last election, 4 out of every 10 people thought he was wrong for the job. He talked until he had nothing left to say, and then he stood to go.
As he started through the doorway, my hand involuntarily touched his arm. Apparently, that was all the encouragement he needed, because he then took me in his arms, bent his lips to mine, and kissed me. And what a kiss! It was gentle but firm, his tongue sliding between my surprised lips to swirl around in my mouth, my tongue sparring with his as he pulled me closer to him. I could feel his manhood hard against my stomach, and I knew he would stay with me if I asked him.
So, when we finally came up for air, I looked into his eyes and said, "You don't really have to go." I took him by the hand and led him to my bedroom.
Inside the room, I closed the door. The only light was from a small lamp on the nightstand. We kissed again, and this time his hands roamed over my body in a delicious way which I had not even known I wanted. His fingers slid down past my waist, kneaded my buttocks through my slacks, came back up my body to the sides of my breasts and then thumbed the nipples which were erect beneath my thin blouse and sheer bra. Meanwhile, my hands were going on their own adventures, moving from his rear to his back to his groin. I ran my fingers over the hardness straining against his pants. All the time we kissed, our tongues flickering in and out of each other's mouths, our saliva flowing freely so that we were actually slurping as we enjoyed each other. He began to fumble with the snap and zipper at the back of my slacks, and I pulled away from him to do it myself.
"Wait," he said. It was the first word he had spoken since the kissing started, and the one I wanted least to hear. "I--I want you to know--I--this is not just for tonight. Is it? I--I want you in my life." And those, of course were the words I'd been longing to hear most of all.
"I want you in mine," I said, finding and fondling the hard bulge at his crotch. "I want you always."
He kissed me again, and we spoke no more for a while, except for little moans and sexy endearments. As we sat on the bed, I undid his shirt buttons and opened his shirt to caress his hairy chest. He shrugged the shirt off, and then he unbuttoned my blouse, and I let it slide off as well. He found the front clasp on my bra and opened it, gently lowering it down my arms and to the bed. I was aware of the way my breasts hung, heavy and drooping, their large nipples hard and distended. I felt myself blushing as he looked at them with something bordering on adoration. To distract myself from my embarrassment, I ran a hand over his chest and discovered that his nipples, too, were hard and erect. I leaned over on impulse and tongued one of them, feeling him shiver and hearing him moan. I opened his belt and his slacks and let him slide them off until he was wearing only black socks and white briefs. A beautifully obvious bulge pulsed in his shorts, and I rand my hand over it lovingly before pulling his shorts down and freeing his throbbing erection.
He pulled my panties off as well, and I was embarrassed to see how obviously wet their crotch was. I hoped he would take my arousal as a compliment.
Once we were naked, he was far less confident, far less in control. "I haven't done this in a long time," he confessed.
"Me neither," I whispered.
I began to play partly by instinct, partly by memory. I stroked his semi-hard cock gently, feeling it swell to life as I moved my fingers up its underside and he moaned his pleasure. In the back of my mind I knew it was not a large penis, but I also knew it was the most beautiful one I'd ever seen, because it was his. He rolled halfway over so we were facing each other. His mouth went to my neck, up to my ears. When his tongue flicked around, the sound and the feeling raised goose bumps all over my body, and my nipples were immediately full, turgid, tingling. His hand found a breast and ever so lightly stroked the nipple, and then hungrily moved his mouth down to it as his hand slid down my belly to the sparse hair of my pussy. My sudden groan startled him, and he started to withdraw, murmuring his apologies, but I pulled his head more tightly to my bosom and moved his hand down to the hairy wetness between my open thighs.
