Slowly

Things like this don’t happen to me. I got home late and was drunk from the scent of you. It was all over me. I could smell you on my clothes, on my hands. Your intoxicating maleness filled my head, swelling it until I was reeling with arousal. I couldn’t shake the thought of you. Not even for a moment

I wanted so desperately to pleasure myself, to see beautiful fantasies, to imagine what your lips would feel like brushing over my flesh, exploring my body. I had done it dozens of times before, but this time it wasn’t real enough. My imagination was failing, even with your scent so powerfully strong and clear in my senses. It’s still a mystery to me, as it has been so very long since I’ve felt even close to whatever this is – but it what it is – and this hold you have on me must be enormous.

Tonight was real, though it still feels somewhat like a phenomenal dream. Was it really me who tasted your lips? They were softer, gentler than even I had imagined. The excruciating sensation of your tongue – the sweetest, most perfect I had ever tasted – when it slid so slowly into my eager mouth like warm honey. Was it really us? Your stubble was rough, masculine and unyeilding, a perfect balance to your sweetness. It was rough on my face, the soft slope of my neck, the full, firm rise of my breasts.

My breath quickening even now in my recollection.

I remember the ease of our conversation. Talking with you is always a pleasure; I love the way we make each other laugh. I reached out to touch you, and oddly enough it was not intended to be sexual. You hair, like spun gold, called out to me in the same way that a child is taken with bright, rich hues. The single bulb illuminated you, and your hair was an aura I had to touch.

Your head dropped for me, perhaps the pressure of my fingers was relaxing at first. Then the air grew still, probably when you made that innuendo – laden remark as my digits explored the topaz, the goldenrod, the brilliant sunshine of your hair. I could suddenly hear our breathing, weighed down and thick, hung over with desire. I became acutely aware that my breasts, nipples hard and straining the confines of my clothing, were pressed against your bicep. Most of all, I could smell you. Your sex. That’s never happend to me, and I was consumed.

“I just want to smell you,” I whispered hotly, grazing my nose over the soft, silky threads of your brilliant locks, taking in little bursts of your scent that traveled directly to my core. I continued stroking you, as if afraid you’d disappear if I broke the connection.

It continued. What I wouldn’t have given to be in your head with your thoughts at that eternal moment. Funny thing was, I knew you’d tell me later.

My chest was burning, tighter and more tense with need than I have ever remembered. A tiny, far away voice in my head warned me of where we were goin, but you made no move, and a stronger one spoke up and told me to listen to the urges and to my heart – and to hell with everything else.

Something was going to happen. I could feel crackles of electricity in those final moments. I brushed my lips, swollen with desire, against your ear – drawing my breath out – making you hot. I could sense your tension making love with my own in the air around us. You shifted ever-so-slightly on the stairs. My heart was racing.

I heard a soft “clink” as you placed your bottle on the cool cement floor. You reached up to hold me, as if in slow motion, I felt each of the tiny, soft hairs of your forearm graze my own. Your warm hand grasped me….And your perfect lips finally met mine. It was so soft; my stomach was tight, and my face flushed hot with racing blood. I tasted you for the first time as your tongue, hot and serpentine, touched my own. You were so sweet. Like heaven and music and life.

We kissed more passionately, and your hands explored my curves – long, tapered, artist’s fingers molding my body, sliding over my rib cage under the stifling heat of my clothing. Finding my breasts, your skillful hands skneaded me into a slow, writhing frenzy. I arched my back, allowing your beautiful hands to sculpt my contours and discover me as I had so desperately dreamed for so long.

I tasted your throat, the alluring curve of your shoulder, drinking in your scent like nectar. You returned my kisses, whispery, feathery sensations over my neck, and I longed for you to paint me with your tongue, to trail it over my skin. Your head dropped, and as you kissed me, five days of stubble teased my décolleré. My nipples, still concealed, strained the material in tight, little buds, aching for your touch. That craving would have to wait for another unvridled evening of further discovery.

You whispered to me, your sinful hands sliding over my soft heat, and told me you were enjoying me, my body. You expressed it so genuinely, and I wanted to tell you how I longed to give it to you, to please you with it, to have you visit every inch of me over and over again – but I said nothing. I’d just wait, and slowly, we’d let our story unravel before us.

I ran my hands over the wispy hair on your chest, playing with your nipples, glancing up now and then to find you watching me through crystal eyes clouded with passion. I traced the outline of your lips, like two perfect petals, and touched your teeth. I bent to kiss and lick your chest, running my nails over your back, wondering if it was fear or desire that made you suck in your breath so sensually as I touched you. Linking, sucking, drinking in your natural must – the perfume of your sex – my desire became nearly unbearable.

And then we held each other. Our arms wrapped snugly around one another in a genuine gesture of warmth, the warmth that has always been there, the warmth of a strange and special chemistry of friendship and desire and…well, who knows?

I pressed my face into the hollow of your neck, taking you into my lungs one last time. I ground my sex into the hard heat concealed inside your jeans. I wanted it. My body ached for you, but it was better left this way.

We shared parting kisses and disapeared into the dry, black beauty of the nighttime city, heading our seperate ways. I am still acutely aware of you. I’ll see you soon. And slowly, slowly – like the sinful events of this evening, like the graceful movements of your gentle hands, like the contained, sultry passion of your kisses – the days will pass.

Your scent will cary me until someday comes….

Copy Right, Desolation – 2003

No portions of Sinful Delights may be used without expressed, written permission.