Persephone

Foreword: this is the strange result of a bunch of factors -- a lot of travel, thoughts of a blooming garden and the reality of a dead one, fertility in the air, talk of al fresco fun... I amused myself by making this a (very, very vague) reference to the

Persephone myth

. It can easily be read without the slightest knowledge of her story, though. In fact, now that I think of it, I may be the only one who can see it…

....................... .......................

I'm dividing some lilies in our little courtyard garden, unconsciously swaying and humming along to Dressy Bessy. I honestly don't register his presence until just before he scoops me up and tosses me over one shoulder. My rapid but purposely futile little kicks and high pitched "eees" only make him chortle, "Well! Pleased to meet you!

"Hope you guess my name...." He jounces me a bit on his shoulder, like a fussy baby.

"Ahh! Dork!" I snark (though it's hard to balance the pout over my irrepressible grin,) and squirm a little more. While I was working, sweat made wings on my t-shirt; now, I feel gravity slowly peel it away from my skin. Once I am red-faced from breathless laughter, he leans forward and rights me, delivering a half-hearted ass smack that turns into a more enthusiastic grope. "Mmmm," his amused voice growls in my ear, "Wrong answer. 'Number one in the hood, G....'" Another light-hearted but more stinging smack sends me burrowing deeper into his embrace in an instinctive effort to escape. At last, he pulls back just a bit, one hand cupping the back of my neck and the other measuring the small of my back.

"Well, hi, stranger -- you're early," I say, and go on tiptoe a bit to meet him halfway. The kiss is brief and sweet, and I snuggle a bit closer. "I missed you so much/so happy to see you," we overlap, and the next kiss makes me whimper as he suckles my lower lip. "I've got....dinner.....mostly...ready to go," I offer, ridiculously, between embraces, my lips belying their own words. I feel him gasp as much as hear it when I press my open palm flat against his zipper.

"Aren't you hungry?" I taunt a little, as he moves me backwards, never letting go, his legs guiding my steps as if we're dancing.

"I am hungry..." he says into my ear, kisses raining along my hairline. "I am dirty and miserable and dead fucking tired and I missed you so, sugarplum. You smell like flowers. You look amazing."

"I'm covered in dirt," I counter, though I'm tugging at his belt now.

"I like you dirty."

It's warm out, but the contrast when he pulls my shirt off makes the air seem cool, every little breeze seemingly focused on my flesh. I can't help but look out over our wall. Our house forms two sides of the courtyard, a parking lot surrounds the other two. But there is an apartment building -- if I can see it....

He cups my chin lightly, turning my face up.

"No one can see in here," says my prince of lies, smoothly.

I move down, pleating up his shirt to run a trail of leisurely kisses from ribs to navel. I toss my head so that a curtain of hair brushes against his skin, and he murmurs huskily, his fingertips on my shoulder, "I like that." I press my smile into his belly, and open his pants.

I'm on him now, my mouth just nuzzling his swollen shaft. I smile to hear him moan. "I -- know something - you'll like more," I finish, moving up to pull him deeply into my mouth.

I love these moments. I'm so excited (deeply excited, my essence seeping into my panties in a continuous trickle) and yet so hyper-aware, so focused on him. It's a bit like jazz -- there's a standard framework, but within that, I run through a series of variations on the theme.

This time I just do whatever comes to mind, spending a few minutes sucking his head with a fair bit of pressure, my tongue lightly dancing over the glans the entire time; then sliding down to take more and more of him in. I start to gag a little. I grab his hand with mine and he intertwines our fingers tenderly, so I feel almost guilty when I move it to the back of my neck, urging him silently to help me. I feel an almost audible click and that last inch or two slides freely into my throat. I smile around him. I can't do this for a long time at a stretch, but God, it's so good in the moment. As of course, is the feeling of him shivering and bucking against me.

I silently curse his clothes. I don't want to feel soft cotton against my palms. When I reach behind to cup his ass, I want to feel the warmth of his naked flesh, not these shifting barriers of cloth. But I'll admit that it makes me savor each inch of exposed skin all the more.

My hand is busy manipulating him, moving in concert with my mouth, when he orders me, hoarsely, "Come here." I shake my head and answer with a short, negative tone, never taking my lips off him. Then he pulls at my shoulder and I pause. "What's wrong?"

"I'll come if you don't stop."

I smirk and take a long, leisurely pull off him before answering. "That's kind of the idea, isn't it?"

No answer. I take up where I left off. I'm hungrier now, the thought of his orgasm spurring me on. I hum a little tuneless song of pleasure at the sweet taste of pre-come seeping into my already wet mouth. My tongue hits a little spot on the underside and he jumps and grips my shoulder.

"No," he says, breathlessly. "I want to come inside you - fill you up.

"Isn't this a good time?" he asks, and I smile and reluctantly release him.

"Isn't it always a good time?" I reply, cocking my hand pertly, but already moving to strip off my jeans. The grass is warm and sweet-smelling, and more prickly than it looks.

The things we say, when we can manage to form words, are inutterably mundane, though still we utter them. I am/he is:

so warm

so hard

so wet

so hot

so sweet

so good, so good, SO GOOD...

But it is our voices saying these things - our hearts tapping out the message.

My hands roam over and under his shirt, now teasing lightly, now caressing, now gripping at him. I bite his neck, savoring his excitement as much as the taste of his glistening skin.

He pushes forward, trying to plumb every millimeter of my depths, until my legs are around his chest. I feel him hit my cervix then, but the way he does it, easing in like a friend, it doesn't hurt. It's like hitting my funny bone in a strangely good way.

He moans adoration into my mouth, and I think he is going to come. I try to encourage him, squeezing my inner muscles and telling him how good he feels to me. But then he eases back and slowly rolls over without releasing me, so I'm gazing down at him.

"Show me what you want," he says.

I want him deep in me again. But first I pull back until he is just barely inside me and I squeeze and hold, squeeze and hold. It makes me whimper, and I say, "OH! Baby, I want your cock so much." I drop my forehead down onto his and steady myself, my hands just above his shoulders, palms pressed into clover. I can hear every little sound coming from his mouth and this ratchets up my desire even more.

I slowly slide back down, soooo slowly. It seems as though my swollen walls can feel every vein, every ridge.

I start to move, a kind of gentle rubbing. My hips rock back and forth and my hair brushes over his face. He reaches up to pinch and stroke my tight nipples, and I bite my lip, my cry coming out in a squeak.

He starts to whisper to me, telling me how good I feel, how hot I look. He says, huskily, "That's my good girl. Grind that wet pussy," and something about the filthiness mixed with his soothingly parental tone makes my clit twitch like a muscle.

Now I am moving a little faster, not as fast as I want to - I won't let myself have it all because the ache is just so good. I keep whispering that I want it, want to feel him so much. I'm begging for it now, pleading for his cock, but he knows enough not to give in. He could thrust up and fill me so easily, I know he could, but he doesn't. He mockingly whispers, "I don't know....I don't know if you really want it badly enough. Rub that little clit and prove it to me."

And then I can't talk any more.

And then I come as if every little death while he was away from me was nothing but rehearsal. I'm almost in a fetal position, hunched over his body, my mouth stretched against his chest in a silent scream. I can't even scream, though. I just let out the tiniest, strangled whimpers - now....and again....and again....and again....until I sigh out all of the tension.

Before I can collapse, he does thrust all the way up into me, sheathing himself. The shock and pleasure of it sets me trembling again, and I grip his shoulder tight as he cry out, loud and harsh. I feel him filling me as he promised.

I rest my head against his neck and start to giggle. I can't stop, and I don't even know why I'm laughing, except that it feels so good to laugh. He rubs his head against mine affectionately. "Hey, I can feel that," he admonishes me with a chuckle.

"Does it feel bad?"

"Actually, it feels good. It's like a little grippy massage." He nudges at me, maneuvering my head around using only his head, so he can get at my mouth again.

We're quiet for a few minutes, kissing and caressing, our breathing slowing in small increments.

"You know," he says, finally, "I think your bed is a little more comfortable than mine..." I pull up with a start, so apologetic, feeling him slip out with a smooth, fish-tailed thwap before he hooks me back down with the crook of his elbow for a rough and awkward one-armed hug.

"It's OK - I should shower," I say, yawning a little. "And call my mom....she's miserable.....wants me to come home...it's all she talks about...."

"No no no no nonononononono," he says in a singsong, wrestling me close again. "I can't let you go. She can come here if she wants."

I shrug and let it drop, kneeling up and attempting to brush off dirt; the sweat instead making streaks of mud. I bundle my clothes into a little packet I can cradle in one arm and make my way toward the back door. He is still lying there, sprawled as contentedly as a dog in the sun.

"I'm going to make cocktails," he calls.

"You know I shouldn't have anything," I reply.

"Just a little taste..." he wheedles. "Three sips. You'll like it -- I will make something pretty for you.

"Something with pomegranate."