Session 11-The Long Session, cont'd
Sometimes, within the web of human affairs, equal amounts of melancholy and sweetness can mingle. The combination can imbue a situation with poignancy sufficient to bring tears both of joy and grief. Strange, perhaps, but I've found it to be true. In the same sense as "the having is not as pleasing as the wanting," both ideas inform us about reality. The latter emphasizes the difference between perception and truth and the former, the recognition of truth when we see it. Vanessa and I made love that last time in full knowledge of the truth of our relationship.
She had captivated me from the first moment I saw her in my office. Exceptionally pretty in the blonde-haired All American Girl way, clean, well-kept, and polite. Her bright brown eyes, such a lovely contrast with her naturally yellow hair, shone with interest and humor, as if she would be a perfect companion for a lively conversation.
Her body told another tale altogether. As luscious as a tropical rainforest, and as fully capable of summoning explorers, her full and curvy figure defined opulent womanhood. And she moved with a grace that implied availability with a subtlety rarely seen in these days of overbearing loudness. My mouth watered whenever I looked at her or even thought about her. Visions of her walking toward me naked, breasts bouncing, pink nipples erect, a sacrificial offering to all acts of carnality, but with a predatory gleam in her eyes that let one know the consuming of bodies would be mutual. As I say, these visions filled my mind, interfering with my concentration whether in or out of her actual presence.
And that is how things worked out. I wanted her and she wanted me, but I was her psychiatrist and "look but don't touch" ruled the day. But, not being a completely earthly creature, she swept aside mere rules of human professional behavior, leaving them broken in her wake. She seduced me and we entered the realm of mutual ecstasy for nearly two days. By the end, I had the information that I needed to provide her answers and she had actionable advice. I had enjoyed her body, metaphorically consuming it in every possible way, as she had mine. But far more importantly, our souls had mingled, and I would never forget our moment in the sun.
Fully aware of the portentous nature of our eventual last embrace, I stood up and put out my hand, beckoning the delightful piece of sweetness known as Vanessa Fontaine. She had been lying on the couch in the living room of my house, telling me of the consummation of her relationship with Aaron Wilson, the first man in her life and the first person with whom she had fallen in love. The sweet, dream-like, and damn hot story had excited me. All day we had both worn nothing but thin bathrobes, ostensibly because Vanessa's clothes needed washing. In reality, we wanted easy access to each other's body. Throughout this time, starting with last night, she reached places in her story where the sexual event she described heated us both up to the boiling point. At those moments, we appreciated the ease of access the robes provided.
I knew the end approached. She had told me this day would be it and the day was nearly over. True, we might have the rest of the night, but the goal was treatment and resolution of her problem, not the satiety of our carnal appetites. At this last sad but dulcet moment, I didn't fling open her robe and immediately bury my face between her shapely legs so she could grab my head and rock her hips and scream when her orgasm struck. No, this time an offer was gently made and gently accepted. We lay on my bed, kissing and caressing for many minutes. I ran my hands slowly over her warm flesh and gazed at her sumptuous body while she whispered words of appreciation for my dark and petite beauty.
In the times before, we had traded service; one of us "did" the other, the other responded, and then we "went sixty-nine." This time, we continued kissing and caressing, finally rubbing each other to ultimate pleasure as we lay face to face. I had thought nothing could be sweeter than the taste of her womanly nectar, but that moment was, that mingling of two souls for the last time. We hugged each other. When the moment passed, we kissed.
I said, "'La petite mort'."
She stroked my cheek and asked, "What does that mean?"
I answered, "It's a French euphemism for orgasm. It translates as 'The little death'."
Something in the phrase struck her. Her eyes smoldered. She quoted Othello in a hoarse whisper, "'To die upon a kiss,'" and trailed down my body leaving love bites along the way.
I remembered her describing a time when Judith and Karen covered her body with hickeys and how it had excited her. Now, I had to agree. Sex, especially oral sex, is a kind of consuming, an eating of another's body. When performed on a woman, it's literally called "eating pussy." We often think of another attractive person as 'delicious' or say 'yum' when we see him or her. I found this leaving evidence of her eating my body one step beyond metaphorical, and it caused my cunt to drip.
I rose to my elbows and viewed the trail she left from my tits to my pussy. I couldn't see the marks on my neck, but I did see the rest. Two on each breast, several on my tummy, and three on each of my thighs. From her position, with her face inches from my cunt, she met my gaze.
She didn't smile. We had already satisfied our mutual need for tender love. Now was the time for lust. Her feral, predatory look told me I was her prey. I spread my legs wide, obedient to her silent demand, a willing sacrifice to her voracious carnality. She licked her lips and then sucked my labia into her mouth, as if she intended to drain my juices, she a sexual vampire and me a very noninnocent victim.
She never took her eyes from mine as her head moved with the subtle motions of her feeding. She let go of my pussy lips and extended her long tongue, wagging it at me and then running it up and down my slit several times before piercing my womanhood with it. Her mouth flat against my cunt, her tongue inches deep, she used it to rub the ventral wall of the inside of my pussy, doing her best to reach my G-spot. My eyes popped and I jerked when she found it.
I wanted to grab her head but that would require me to lie back and break our gaze and that I would not do. Her tongue probing my pussy nearly drove me wild, but her eyes bonding with my soul enraptured me.
My eyes got wider and her tongue got livelier. My breath grew short and grunts issued from my throat unsummoned. She placed a hand on my tummy, just above my slit and rubbed my bud with her thumb. She ran her other hand up to my breast and pinched my nipple, hard. My lips formed a grimace and my brow furrowed. A sensation so intense I couldn't tell if it was pleasure or pain radiated outward from my nub through my body. A powerful spasm wracked my body. I screamed, loud, primal, incoherent, as I quaked.
The sensation took several moments to pass and, when it did, I dropped back, exhausted. Vanessa slid up the bed. Spit dripped down her chin and fragrant female nectar glistened in a wide circle area around her lips. I licked her face with a greedy passion and placed my open mouth on hers, entwining our tongues. Breathless, I broke the kiss, stroked her cheek, and said, "'To die upon a kiss' indeed. I think my heart stopped for a moment."
She smiled and grazed my nipples with her fingertips. The dreamy, sleepy look of contentment gradually faded. I sensed hesitation in her. She sighed and said, "Are you ready to continue? I'm almost done with my story. Then you'll have to suggest the best thing for me to do." She kissed me on the lips. It felt like a farewell.
I nodded. "Do you want a shower, first?"
She nodded but didn't move. She couldn't meet my eyes as she said, "And, I guess, we should get dressed. Are my clothes still in the dryer?"
Of course, that meant no more sex. I knew it was coming. She had told me this day would be it. I thought I would be ready for it, but it had been such a beguiling experience, beautiful beyond my ability to describe. Tears welled in my eyes and spilled down my cheeks. It must have been contagious, because she cried, too. We lay there and held each other while we sobbed. What seemed like hours later, but in reality just moments, I sniffed and said, "You get in the shower. I'll fetch your clothes."
Vanessa took longer in the bathroom than me. I laid out her clothes, halter top dress, stockings, shoes and went to my living room to wait. Actually, I called it the "living room" as do many in the South, but the rest of the country would probably call it the den or the family room, reserving the name "living room" for a smaller one with more expensive furniture that never got used.
As I often do, I stood at my window and stared out. My subdivision outside Forrestburg, about eighty miles north of the coastal town of Beauchamp, abuts a national forest. I like to watch the trees that I can see over my privacy fence. During the day, squirrels scurry about, twitching their noses and swishing their bushy tails. At night, it's raccoons. I find them less cute but more interesting than the squirrels. They seemed more intelligent, more focused, more logical in their search for food. Everyone in the neighborhood has special trash bins with heavy, spring-loaded tops, intended to foil scavengers, but that doesn't stop those persistent bandits from trying.
