You have put me through Hell. You are a sneaky little kitten. So vulnerable and demur on the outside. But devilish and conniving on the inside. You knew that leaving me all alone at the beginning of Lent would combine the absence of both your body and my access to erotica and self pleasure. I could not have imagined you could be so cruel.
My mind literally pulsates with sexual desire for you. Desire I have not felt since New Haven. But I need not tell you—you, the Machiavelli of Sexual Torment.
So many fantasies play out their tortured plot. We finally arrive home past midnight. We are both bushed. But we have not seen each other for so long. Indeed, I can't remember the last time I had not dripped my venom in any form for over a week. (Ten days to be precise.) We tenderly kiss in the living room. It is an ambiguous kiss. Is it the kiss of warm rekindling that leads to a well deserved night's sleep? Or is it the kiss of lust that ignites smoldering embers in our loins? Surprisingly, I am tentative, ever mindful of my fear of being looked at as a monster and not wanting to too quickly knock you off of your Tulsa pink cloud. So I decide to follow your lead. But I get no clear signal.
You have had a long day so I suggest that I give you a bath. I run the water and melt your favorite salts and minerals, along with a little lavender oil. You luxuriate in the feeling of security and happiness to be back home. I dry you off and take you to bedside to tuck you snugly into your side of the bed. I can feel your tension dissipate as you relax. Alas I say to myself it is not to be. But I am content in your obvious joy to be home.
I crawl in and we both shuffle to the middle. You spoon your derriere into my groin and I slip my left arm under your head. I put my right arm under your arm and gently stroke your tummy. We are both contented that the universe makes sense again.
I cannot help but harden at the joy I feel having you in my arms again. You reach around, grab my erect tool and give it a tug, laughingly jesting "what's this? Don't tell me you missed me, Hector?" Your mere touch sends an electric vibration trickling through my body. I don't know if I can wait for you to take the lead but you just go limp while not removing your hand from the measure of my anticipation.
I sweep your hair away from your shoulder while at the same time wafting on its delicate scent. I tenderly kiss your right shoulder like I have done a hundred times before. But this is different. You shudder involuntarily. You feel it in your pussy. Your hope of slumber is fading as the fire between your legs ignites.
What could you expect? Your last ten days have been a roller coaster journey of mental, emotional, intellectual, spiritual growth and exploration. But your physical needs were unrequited. Now all the hunger you have ignored is concentrated more powerfully than you ever remember in the folds of you labia. As I kiss down your spine and drop my right hand to caress the delicate skin of your bottom, you begin to feel overwhelmed with the tactile pleasure you are experiencing. I know how to do my job and you are a quivering mass of erotic flesh. Your need is palpable. I hear you moan longingly and I know you are mine.
Apparently it has been as hard (no pun intended) on you as it has on me, only you have sublimated the yearning. You realize now what a mistake that has been. The physical need is overwhelming you beyond all reason. You have been here so many times before. How can it feel so intense, so unique, so compelling? Yet it does and you signal with your breathing that you are quickly moving up the mountain of orgasmic culmination. You ask me to taste your flesh, confident that I will relish the opportunity to dive between your legs.
But the prick in me wants revenge. Revenge for the burden I have been carrying the last ten days. Who the fuck are you to leave me so high and dry?, I think! You know my need, my drive, my passion. Yet not once did you suggest that you would talk me to release. So now is my chance for payback. How can I love you so much and harbor such feelings?
I continue to caress your back and thighs. I let my hand slid down to the small of your back and I rake my nails just above the beginning of your crack. You moan again yearningly. Your breath is ragged and I can now smell your arousal. I have you exactly where I want you. Gently I slide my hand lower into the crevice between you posterior mounds. You are so aroused that I surprisingly find vaginal lubrication resting on your thigh. Not much but just enough. I dip my middle finger into the salacious pool and gently stir the juice. I then let my finger travel the excruciatingly short distance to your anus, moving so slow you can hear your heart beating in your ears in anticipation of the culmination of its journey. The thirty seconds seem like a score of minutes, you feel my finger kiss your bud. You audibly shudder at the journey's end. I gently massage the ring, penetrating only a quarter inch. But enough to cause your sphincter to convulse. It is not an orgasm but would be life's sweetest physical experience to one who had never experienced erotic release.
But you have experienced orgasm. You are in fact an accomplished expert in the art that has eluded so many women. You know how to accept pleasure from another but you are unabashed in giving yourself release. You torment your lovers by brazenly flaunting the lack of need for any male assistance in satisfying your basest need. That's not to say that you don't appreciate someone who knows what they are doing or that you can ever replicate the feeling of a cock artfully thrust deeply into your cunt. Oh, how I love your passion, your openness, your streak of independence. I tear up at the realization of the gift that God has given his undeserving servant.
"Please eat me, please." I turn you flat on your back and climb to the top of the bed. I turn your head towards mine and whisper "Marita Mercedes Vargas, I love you more than life itself." You wail in recognition of what you have put me, indeed us, through. I then brush my lips against yours, signaling that you should put your guilt aside. No matter how much you love our osculation, your pussy aches for attention. I press my lips to yours more longingly. I slide the tip of my tongue to your lips. I start the dance of our lips and tongues that I know you love so much. But your hips grind. I reach over to your right hand and lift it and place it on your nether region.
It is not what you want. You want, perhaps more then ever before, to have me use my gift for giving oral pleasure to relieve you of the buildup that has been growing. But you recognize that I am either stupid or up to something so you caress familiar territory. And so a wonton synchronization starts. As my tongue plunges between your teeth, your finger taps the pearl. Your body reacts like you have been struck by lightning at the twin stimulations. You are grinding and moaning so prolifically that an outsider would guess that it is Kabuki theatre, extreme for theatrical effect. No woman could be so animated in her passion, the alien would conclude. Especially while fucking her own finger for the millennial visit. But I know your body. I know it is the real deal. You are strung out for release. It is not eroticism or pleasure. It is feeding an addiction. Your need is so great that your attention is like slathering grease on sunburned skin, the satisfaction is in the relief from pain.
