Author's note - This is another shortie, written in the desperate days I struggled with the worst case of writer's block of my life. It's a wee bit autobiographical, she said with a smirk, but mostly, like my other offerings, it's purely fiction, ideas that bubble up in the fevered cauldron of my brain. And, much like 'Anja,' it's quite unlike anything I've written to date. I felt the need to create something very different. I hope you enjoy my little tale. ~ AVL ~
*****
"I look at you and I can't help myself."
We had just gotten home after a day of shopping, walking from store to store, canvassing all three levels of the mammoth indoor shopping center.
You stared at me, wide eyed as ever.
"I see them looking at us, eyes flicking from you to me." I smiled. "Always you... first. Then me... as if they're wondering how I got to be so lucky."
The blush began in your cheeks, spreading slowly as you lowered your emerald green eyes, eyes that had flecks of brown and yellow in them - catlike in some respects.
"I take it - them looking - and you, I'm sorry to admit, for granted."
Your eyes widened slightly. I shrugged and stepped closer.
"I know what's underneath the gloriously clothed package that is your body... and I can't help but smirk."
I lifted the silk blue top, taking it over your arms, over your neck, and off.
"I've tasted you, watched as you come completely undone... again and again, your body squirming, helpless."
I felt your heartbeat quicken, heard your breathing become rapid, get shallow.
"I want you!"
I heard the soft whimper.
I looked into cloudy eyes, already heavy, even as you remained silent, standing still.
I unclasped your bra, letting it fall to your hands, and removed it. Your arms remained at your sides, fingers clasping the pockets of your black slacks.
The blush had spread to your neck, having already turned your face a light shade of embarrassed. Like always.
"I know they wonder if you're some famous runway model. I want to laugh - but don't."
It's a source of embarrassment - still. I never have completely figured it out. You're an account exec at a major ad agency. Nothing to be ashamed of. You love it, and you're good at it. Good enough to land a couple of Fortune 50 companies. Anyways...
Your breasts are a thing (or is it things?) of beauty. Standing tall on your chest, their pointy tips a subtle shade of pink, they fit perfectly in my mouth. Other than a spot on your neck just below and behind your ears, your nipples are your most sensitive spot. It's been so long now since I've found those treasures that I admit to taking them for granted.
Until, of course, we're in bed, naked, writhing, dueling, each of us trying to give the other one more thing more than the last, frantic time we... what
is
the right word for the wanton fury of our lovemaking??
'Fuck' is so crude... but in some ways that says it perfectly.
Making love, at least to me, has a sweetness that, while it's present at every turn, each time we couple, doesn't take into account the fullness, how completely at ease we are with each other, the abandon with which we give ourselves to each other.
My head is cluttered with this kind of crap, which serves no real purpose but to keep you there, in my every thought, filling my senses with the memory of you.
I unclasp your slacks and let them fall. Your eyes plead with me, begging me to stop teasing and start... well, teasing.
My smile is mostly a smirk; your eyes get sharp.
I lean in and kiss you; a quick brush. You don't move your hands. You know better.
We don't speak of it, but you've given me permission to be in control when we love.
Um, of course, when we do, and after I've had my fill of you, and it's your turn to take what you want from me... dear god. I mentioned how you fill my mind with memories of your scent - and so much more.
I can call up everything about how you took me, pushed me through the erotic wringer of your ravaging., edging me, making me cry out in despair and want, squirming wildly on the bed... or the couch, or on the kitchen counter, or the desk where you do your after hours nonsense left over from work.
I shiver at the thought as my eyes take in your lean, curvy form. It's familiar, of course. Hour after hour spent exploring, mapping every crevice, each soft hill, every shivering inch of all of you.
I feel the familiar lump in my throat as I devour you with my eyes.
I look up and into yours. Your eyes call to me, begging me to start.
I smile. It's fun, so fabulous, that we communicate so clearly without needing to speak.
I push my hand between your legs, feeling the wetness that has formed - just from my gaze and the minimal amount of touching I've done... so far.
I lean in and kiss you again. This time I let the kiss linger.
You open your mouth, offering yourself to me.
My turn to whimper. I feel the smile as my tongue enters you; this dance is one that you know drives me over the edge of control.
My fingers move to your head, digging deep into the black waves of gorgeous that is your hair.
Your fabulous locks are but a part of why the masses stare at you when we're out. You have it professionally done; styled in the latest and greatest fashions.
I see them stare and can't resist a smile.
They have no idea what that mess of gorgeous looks like, damp with effort, as your head flips from side to side as we love. As I destroy you. Again.
Even as we kiss I push your panties off your hips. You wiggle to help gravity do its work.
As you stand naked before me, I begin to take my clothes off. I push out of my shoes as I lift my blouse from inside my slacks. As I do that, you unclasp my bra, letting it fall after its journey to my fingers.
Your fingers toy with my nipples. I don't push your hands away, letting you have your way with me - and them.
I have big, puffy nipples, not the smooth peaks that top yours.
It's always interesting to be with someone new and compare features. We're both 34C and we're so different.
My breasts are losing their battle with gravity. It can't be helped. My butt isn't what it was when I was younger, either.
There have been women who've made me feel icky... even though nothing was said. Those relationships, some of which were... lusty, were brief. Either she moved on or I tired of... it. I'm sure those of you reading know exactly what I mean.
Anyway... you finished with me, both of us now naked. I knew what my level of arousal was.
Honestly, I never needed you to edge me. You were... no, are... my erogenous zone. All five foot seven of you. All 115-ish pounds of you.
(She'd kill me if I actually told you how much "ish" is. Winkeroonies.)
Your hand extends. Surprised, I look up into eyes that burn bright with desire.
I extend my hand, placing it in yours.
