I am admiring her. I am admiring her and writing about her. I am writing about how she is leaning over me, watching me write about her. I am writing about how she is kissing me, about how her tongue feels in my mouth. It is rough, like a cat’s tongue. Her hand is on my pants, she is feeling my erection through my pants. Her hand is slowly moving up and down over the crotch of my pants. It is ready for her, but I am not ready, I am writing. She is touching me more to get herself aroused that for my benefit. She wants to be the seductress once again. She is kneeling in front of me as I write. She is kneeling and she is slowly unbuttoning my trousers. Her hand goes across the cotton of my boxers. Her head moves downward, her lips press against the cotton. She lightly blows hot air through the fabric. Her hands are on my stomach, up and down my stomach. She fumbles with the waistband. I can feel the cold metal of her wedding band against my stomach. She slowly lowers to fabric to expose the tip of my manhood. She kisses it lightly. I can feel the grease of her lipstick against my skin. It twitches instinctively. She kisses and licks the tip. She looks up into my eyes, she is watching me write about her, write about her actions. Write about her tongue and her fingers and her greasy lips. She is appreciative of the attention. She takes the entire tip in her mouth. Saliva drips down the shaft. It has been many years since she has had a man in her power like this, since she played the seductress. But she remembers, remembers what it feels like to have a man in her mouth. She can feel the throbbing, she can feel the heat. She moves slowly up and down, just teasing. She pulls my pants all the way off. Her hands caress my thighs, up and down, from hip to knee. She caresses my scrotum. He mouth moves down the shaft to join her fingers. I am very stiff now, I want her, I want to stop writing and put it inside her, climax inside her. But I keep writing. She knows that I want her, she wants to be wanted. A large smile is on her face.
She gets up off her knees and lies on her back on the bed. She opens her legs for me. She opens her legs and runs her hands lightly over her panties. I can see that they are wet with excitement. She pulls the cloth to one side to expose her lips. There is a tuft of red hair down there. Her scent begins to fill the room. She holds her panties to one side and she moves her finger up and down the slit, slowly, carefully. She is inviting me. Inviting me to worship her body, not on paper, but in life. I move to the bed. My head is between her legs, my tongue laps against the red hair. I can smell her perfume about me. I can feel her wetness. She pushes her hands against the back of my head and I taste her. She is still warm, she is still soft. She is glad of that description. She is afraid that one day she will not be inviting, she is afraid that one day she will be reduced to a shrivelled husk, wrapped in Italian silk. But that day is not today. She is warm, she is inviting. My tongues brushes her clitoris. It stands at attention. It stands harder than it has in many years. I lick her up and down, slowly, just teasing. I know what she wants. She wants me to be inside of her. She wants me to penetrate her. I move upward across her body, stopping to see the sights like a tourist. I stop at her belly and lick around her navel. There are few strechmarks, she keeps fit, she watches her weight. She wants me to notice, she is desperate to have someone to notice. I move upward, to the peaks of her breasts. I can see the nipples through the fabric. I bite on one, lightly, through the material. She gasps in delight. I lift the underwire above the beast, exposing it. I suckle her for a while. She is reminded of her youth, of her children, these breasts have suckled many, they have brought life to many, now they are bringing pleasure. She wants to bring pleasure. She wants to be the source of passion, even if it is to a stranger. I suckle each breast in turn, taking my time with each, but not lingering too long.
I move further north on the topology of her body, to her neck. I nuzzle against the skin. Her perfume is strongest here. I can taste the bitter flavor of it against the sides of her neck. That doesn’t stop my tongue. It licks its way from ear to ear, slowly, leaving a trail of saliva across her throat, like a scalpel would leave a trail of red blood. I nibble against her left ear as her hands stroke my buttocks. she heaves her pelvis against me, desperate to get me inside her, desperate to feel my warmth inside her. But I don’t give her the angle, don’t give her the opportunity. I tickle the backside of her ear with my tongue for several minutes. Her breathing is hard, labored. She is fully consumed by the passions. she feels my hands stroking across her breasts, she feels my weight against her chest. She feels my body brush up against her open thighs. I want her like this, I want her consumed, I want her to be delirious, so delirious that she doesn’t know what to do next she doesn’t know how to say no. I could do anything with her now.
Her fingers are in my mouth. I worship them as I worshipped her breasts, her navel, her mound. I put them in my mouth. I lick her wedding band, knowing that it is the symbol of adultery, that it is taboo. It makes me stiffer to know this, to know that this shouldn’t be happening like this. That she should not want me like this, allow my to be inside her like this. I manuver myself higher. I gently brush my lips across hers, but only gently. She lifts her head, in the vain hope of gaining a stronger kiss, but I pull away. I lift myself up, higher, I want her to see my body, I want her to see my chest. I want her to want me. Her hands reach down between my legs and grab the shaft. She pulls it towards, her, she aims it towards her. She wants me to thrust into the most intimate place, she wants to feel me where she has felt nothing but her husband for a dozen years. She wants me to go inside of her, to become part of her, to feel the place deep inside of her that makes her a woman, the place that nurtures children and provides the sweetest pleasure to only the most fortunate of men.
I don’t disappoint her. I push myself forward, against her lips. She hesitates for a moment, but just for a moment. Suddenly unsure if she should take this final step. But prudence gives way to passion and she opens for me. I am inside of her. I am inside of her and I am stroking her. My lips are locked together with hers. Our saliva mixes. Our fluids are mixing. I am pumping in and out of her. Faster and faster. Her hands are on my hips, puling and pushing, forcing me to move faster and faster. she is tight inside, tighter that I had imagined. She is warm inside, she is soft inside, she is wet inside. I can feel her wetness dripping down her thigh. She is moaning in passion. She wants to feel the passion, she wants others to know, she wants everyone to know that she is passion, that she can feel, that she can entice, that she can love. She is screaming, she is screaming loudly, disturbing the other patrons of the desert hotel. She is screaming and calling. Her mouth is open, her eyes are closed. She is imagining being admired, she wants to be admired. She wants me to admire her and to write about her and to make love to her and to write about making love to her. She doesn’t want he passion to die with the end of the physical act. She wants it to live on, to live forever, to be an everlasting symbol of her womanhood.
And then she is climaxing, and I am climaxing. I can feel her muscles clench around me, I can feel her body quake beneath me. She is climaxing and I am climaxing. My fluid enters her in hot, long, shots. It squirts into her deepest places. She acts as if she can almost feel each ejaculation enter her. Perhaps she can feel the warmth, perhaps she can feel the wetness. We lie together for a time afterwards. I lie on top of her, slowly growing soft within her. I can feel her chest heaving, straining for breath. I can feel her sweat dripping, making her body slick and moist. Our lips touch once more, and them I am up. I go to my computer and begin typing. Sit there nude and type. I write about her body, I write about her passion, I watch her, still lying there, legs spread, heaving for breath. I watch as she arises. I watch as she is sitting on the edge of the bed, regaining her senses. She knows that I am writing about her, somehow it is no longer enough. She feels the wetness of my saliva underneath her wedding band. She twists it nervously. She looks sad. She has let passion overcome her. She has done a bad thing. She can’t undo it. It has happened. It was real, it is forever memorialized in prose. Her passions will live forever, even if she no longer wants them too. She dresses in silence. Her hair is tussled. She is beautiful, even in sadness, even in regret. A tear slides down her face. Her makeup was disturbed before, by our passions, but now the mascara runs down her cheek. It makes her look more vulnerable, it makes her look more beautiful. She finishes dressing. There isn’t much to say really. I am writing and she is dressing and she is standing. She looks back once more at me, but I am busy, I am busy memorializing her passion, her desire, her error of judgement. She no longer wants to be admired. She no longer wants to be wanted and stared at and made to feel like a woman. She wants to retreat into obscurity. She wants to return to her passionless life of comfort and predictability. I understand this and I write about this. She heads towards the door. She is looking back at me now, hesitating, thinking of something to say, something to make it right, something to erase the past few hours. I could comfort her, but I don’t. I am writing, I am chronicling her. She turns back in silence and closes the door behind her. I can hear her footsteps grow more and more faint in the hallway as she returns to her room, returns to her life. I don’t care. I am writing this. I am sitting and I am writing.