Mared

I know you're here with someone else. I know we have only met for a friendly drink, which was a painful exercise in self-control. I also know you're standing in the corner taking a breather from non-stop small-talk.

I stand up from the bar with a glass of wine for you, the same label you had at the restaurant when we met. It's not a great party-rather stuffy, actually, so I'm determined to make some fun just for us.

You're in that dress: short, black, a little sparkly, plunging to reveal a dignified amount of decolletage. Your thick auburn hair is done simply. You are possessed of a quiet elegance that drives me mad. You turn and smile as I approach, and I hand you the glass.

"Thanks," you say coyly, and look down as I gaze at you. "Kind of a boring party, huh?", I ask. You nod. People crowd around your date, his magnetism drawing attention with little effort. "Quite a guy you have there," I say and smile. You smile back quietly.

I hook my hand around your arm and whisper, "Want to get some air?" It's not a question. We walk slowly to the porch overlooking Newport's Cliff Walk. The surf beats in the night, and a cool breeze pours in from the sea. It's enough to chill you, so I take off my suit jacket and drape it over your shoulders.

As I do, I close the front tightly and pull your body to me sharply, pressing my lips to yours. Your eyes grow wide with surprise, then settle into an expression of contentment as my tongue snakes into your mouth. I slip my left hand into your hair and slide my right down the front of your beautiful body.

You seem like you're about to protest, but I whisper again, "Shhhhhh ... relax," and kiss you deeply again.

My right hand traces your figure down below the hem of your dress and along your thighs, then back up, catching the hem of your dress and lifting it above your hips. Instinct tightens your legs against my hand and you withdraw slightly, but just slightly. Slipping my fingertips under the string of your thong, I gaze deeply into your eyes to steady you.

Then a long pause as I press my lips on yours and pull your head tighter to mine, my fingers trembling in anticipation of slipping down behind the triangle of fabric covering your delicious prize.

My hand glides effortlessly down your smooth mound. The silky fabric slips along the back of my hand. You are warm, and as my fingers trail lower, I feel the temperature of your skin rise with the blood rushing to your pussy. Warm to hot in four inches.

Then a cleft. It's damp. Then wet. And hard. Tiny lips outline you, open and wanting. Your skin prickles with the new sensation of my fingers on your engorged clit. I slip inside you, and the wetness turns thick.

Not wanting to draw too much attention to us, I press my lips back over your open mouth, from which emanate moans and strangled cries. The sounds continue but I swallow them, like heaven swallows smoke.

Now your hips press against my hand, grinding deeply to force my fingers into the thick pool of desire you hold inside. My fingers break a seal, and your cum slips along my hand and out of your body, hot and thick and delicious, then down your thigh in a thin stream.

"Now be a good girl and cum for me."

With these few words your body responds. Your muscles contract, forcing the thick cream out into my palm. I smell your sex. For now you are mine and the world is irrelevant. You dance on my hand and sway to the pulse of my fingertips.

"Again."

Words grip you, and again you coil and release into my hand, your voice tight, your nipples hardened and rubbing raw against the silk of your dress. You arch your knee against the hardness in my pants, but I push your leg back down. You may not touch it.

"Again." I hiss the third time-a little sinister and hard-and you shatter.

Your head shakes and your body spasms. The wetness is coursing from you, soaking the French cuff of my shirt. The air is thick with you.

You have marked me.

As the third wave passes, I grip you tightly in my arm to hold you up. You lean into a deep kiss, but I slip my slicked fingers into your mouth, then use my lips to press them deeper. "Taste your lust," I croak, and lick the cream from my hand. It is mixed with your saliva and drips onto my other cuff.

Pulling my hand from your mouth, you lunge forward to keep the fingers inside but I withdraw them enough for you to flash your eyes at me. You want more. So I grab your hand and guide it under your skirt, loading your fingers with your cream, hesitating a moment and using them to circle around your open pussy to gather more wetness. You gasp, then press your pussy against your fingers to gather even more.

With a jerk I pull up your hand by the wrist and hold it between us. In that moment I see you and smell you and taste you. Have you to myself. And with a heavy lidded gaze back, you approve.

Our tongues meet and lick your fingers clean before our lips press together and share the last drops of you.

Then we breathe. The ocean exhales on us, cooling us and bringing us back. To the porch. To the giant old house. To people. To small talk. To the realization that I am marked.

And no one else knows but you.