The first few times we had sex, we made love. It was sweet, it was romantic. I would have showered late in the afternoon, or taken a long bubble bath. Put on my frilliest underthings. Carefully dabbed on the lightest of makeup, with the most subtle come-hither red lipstick and swoosh of Clinique body power. Picked out the most feminine of silk blouses and not-too-tight not-too-short skirts, with matching medium heels.
And after dinner and a movie, or that party at Gerry and Joan's, or the evening in the city at the symphony, we'd find ourselves at his place or at mine. Standing at the foot of the bed, he'd slowly unbutton and unsnap me, and I him. Nervous hands, sometimes almost trembling, and wet open-mouthed kisses of anticipation.
I'd be on my back for the longest time, holding my lips apart like a butterfly's wings while his mouth played in my honeyed folds, his tongue and lips making close friends with my clitoris and my fragrant mysteries. I let my pubic hair grow wild and untamed in those days. I wanted my lovers to unwrap me, to get past the frilly feminine trappings and discover the animal within. When they first got into my pants, they were always surprised.
Or he would lie back and I would explore him, from the tiny pebbles of his hard nipples to his flat, furry belly, and eventually to his velvet-skinned stiffness, always insistent, always leaking. My tongue would lick him from base to tip in long straight paths, marveling at how he would quiver and throb as I passed over each bump and ridge on my way to that distinctive mushroom head with its dark rim.
And when I would finally take him into my mouth, at first just the barest inch of promise, then soon thereafter a plunging engulfing of his entire shaft, he would gasp and squirm in my wet grasp and leak even more.
He was a slow and patient lover. He entered me gently, almost hesitantly, making sure that every gradual step was met by a willing and slippery welcome. When he was finally and completely inside me, he would just soak there for a time, while I relished the stretching hardness of him. He was alive in my vagina, and I was alive snugly enveloping him.
And then he would move. Tiny little circles at first, then larger circles, then long smooth strokes that teasingly ricocheted off one side then the other. My legs would wrap around his strong back and I surrender myself to him, feeling creamy slick and yielding. My fingers would play on his back or in his hair, and he would kiss my red lips as I nibbled on him and sucked in his tongue the way my red-lipped cunt was sucking in his cock.
