The First First

She wondered what he would do. Would he come find her? Would he pretend nothing was different? Would they pick up where she thought they left off? Where had they left off? All she knew was that the thought of him made her wet. Given that they had never seen one another in person, what would it be like? She could avoid the delicious decision by thinking about something else, but she enjoyed just breathing into the feeling of her slippery cunt tightening around air, where she'd love his cock to be, or his tongue, or at least one of his fingers, with his palm pressed against her clit.

She could feel her head getting lighter as her panties soaked through. She wanted to slip her hand down her skirt as she drove down the night highway, but she had no idea what kind of mess she'd make, or who would be greeting her when she arrived. Her? Could be a little awkward if her fingers were sticky from her own wetness, as she carried all her stuff in. Other her? Probably the least likely, but impossible to know. The most appealing option? Him.

If it were him, she could wait for him to walk out to her car as she drove up. He could open her door. She would feel herself sit up straight, her swollen breasts pressed against her bra as she worked hard just to breathe. She would take in one breath, centering herself as she prepared to answer the most pressing question in her working memory. She would probably feel another warm pool of wetness form, and her clit swell against the seam of her tights as she pulled the handle of the door and opened her car onto the glistening dark street. He would stand by the door, one hand on it, the other extended to her as she would unfold herself out of the car, to stand face-to-face in front of him. It would be the first first.

Their hands would touch. They would see each other's eyes for the first time, both of them checking their mouths. Dry. Their lips? Parted. Their eyes? Electric. Their skin? Tingling. Their fingers? Following the curve of the other's as they laced together. Their guts? Thrilled. And terrified. His cock? Growing and painful pressed against the zipper of his dark blue straight-legged jeans. Her mound? Pulsing with the throb of her heartbeat.

And here's the 2nd first. She might bring her wet, sticky fingers first to his note. She might hold his gaze, watch the corners of his full mouth cure into a half smile, and his eyes, closed in a playful squint, revealing their question: "what are you up to?" She might return his gaze, raising her eyebrows: "I'm not telling!" He would probably notice the salty-sweet smell of what he would know in that moment was the wetness of her cunt, teasing his nose with more questions. She might see the recognition on his face and feel herself flood. Oxytocin. Dopamine. And she would move her fingers to his lips and into his mouth. His lips would close around the entire length of her coated fingers. She would hear and feel his throat release a deep sigh of satisfaction, of recognition that he was sampling her insides.

She would stay glued to his eyes, and feel the warmth in her grow from her soul as he took her essence into his mouth. And he might settle into the delight of knowing, drinking in, a part of her he had craved, but couldn't be confident he would share. And his tongue would be devouring her in their first few moments together.

She would slip her fingers slowly out of his mouth and take a single step away, taking him him. Her eyes would remain locked on his, their fingers laced, and it would be his eyes that would shift, first from satisfaction to needing. And holding his gaze, she would move her fingers from his mouth to hers. She would notice that the few moments of sharing her wet fingers with him had bound them together. Breaking the contact between her fingers and his lips and tongue, she would move her fingers to her own tongue, and move the desperate craving to its only outlet: the connection between their tentatively interlaced fingers. She would close her mouth around her fingers, now cooled by his saliva, and she breath in the sweet, peetie, flavor left by his whisky-kissed tongue.

He would take his eyes from hers first. He would see her fingers disappear into the dark, wet cave of her mouth, then he would trace his gaze to the soft glow of her cheek, the fold of her neck, the glow of her glistening skin beneath her collar bone, exposed to the caress of the moon. He would feel his desire pull his stiff cock to the point of pain, as his eyes traced the curve of her tits, straining against her impossibly thin t-shirt. Had he not noticed the hint of her nipples, now staring directly at him?

She pulled up next to the curb and shut the car off. She waited for a moment to see who, if anyone would meet her. She heard the front door open and saw a shadow fall across the yard from the front porch light. She had come to let her in. The first first would have to wait.