Long After Midnight
"Don't think of her," she whispers at me. "Just for tonight, think of me."
"I'm not thinking at all," I whisper back at her.
Her fingers move from my tie to my neck, from my neck to my chin, from my chin across the small stubble of my middle-of-the-night whiskers, until she finds my lips. I kiss two of them: forefinger, middle finger. Feel them slid inside me, a tiny female penetration, she is touching the dampness just inside my lips, I feel the roughness of Marta's fingers slide against my gums, my teeth and then withdraw. I let my head turn, following, and see her, the heavy pendulous fall of her breasts beside my shoulder, the long, dark tendrils of her hair against the paleness of her skin (I have touched her just now, her skin, the precious soft insides of her). Her hand glides across my face, her palm soft, dry, tentative.
There is a moment when someone touches you for the first time as a lover, when skin and bone and gristle fade away, and you can feel -- almost - each other's soul. The shyness of her hand against my face invades me and we touch in that way (to that depth) for a moment. I ache inside for more of her. Her fingers brush over my eyes and I close them under her soft ministrations so I am only darkness and feeling. I want to be inside this lovely woman: the thought of that, the butterfly touch of her fingers on my eyelids makes me hard inside my clothes.
In the dark beneath her fingers, I say her name.
She says mine.
She is my friend, my love.
"Touch me," I ask her.
She understands.
Her hand leaves my eyes. She finds me elsewhere, kneads me lightly, squeezes. Then finally, laughing, naked (I can smell her with my eyes closed, her warmth, her sweat, her sex), she pulls my tie apart, her fingers find the buttons of my shirt. My eyes open now, and the woman I am looking at is flushed again, sexed and wide-eyed. I touch again the soft folds of her waist, the hard bone of her hip, I pull her to me, against me, the naked jointure of her legs meets mine, and I am clothed, straining up against her. The bedroom air is cool on my chest and stomach and I twist to touch her, skin to skin. Her belly against my ribs and my own soft, middle-aged stomach. I feel the rush that comes with touching body to body. All that glorious flesh of ours, a million nerve endings. Her hands are busy, gifted now, and dexterous. She has undone my belt, unhitched me, I kick off my shoes (hear them thump and clatter to the floor) and finally, amazingly, adulterously, beautifully, her hands and fingers find the warm stiffness at the bottom of my body.
"Oh, Jesus, Marta," I say to her as she squeezes, moves and gives me sudden bolts of pleasure.
And then,
bends down to me, my pants now somehow bunched, undignified, below my knees, and, looking up at me past the sad old swell of my belly, guides me with her fingers to her mouth. Her odd, flat lips now move against my shaft, kissing, caressing; her tongue, ferret-like, glancing out to touch my frenulum, then licking downward, a damp glissando, to my balls. She looks at me, dark-eyed, knowing. She has me now. She knows it and I know it too. I can do nothing more than let myself be loved by this fierce and gentle woman. I gasp and surrender to her and think, as she wants, only about her, as she smiles around me and takes me fully in her mouth.
*
Now, for several long, delicious moments, my whole being is located in the few inches of flesh at the bottom of my body. Marta's mouth is warm, her tongue alive and moving on my shaft. My hips follow her as she moves, rising, falling with the soft directions of her lips, her tongue, her teeth. Her hands slide under me, lifting me in synchrony, her fingers drifting inside the cleft of my ass, tracing lightly the edge of my asshole. I feel her thumbs at the base of my body, the soft, electric underside of my balls.
She is skilled at this.
This is something I know about her now.
"Dear god," I tell her. "I've dreamed of doing this with you."
She releases me from her lips, her fingers still moving in, around me.
Answers:
"You're not dreaming now, Sid."
