First date, easy and relaxed conversation, casual touching at dinner. Walked her to her door she turned and faced me, and we found common ground in lips, hips chest and breasts. Dry fucking on the doorstep, pulling her ass to me, exchanging tongues and swapping spit.
Grabs my hand holds tight as she fumbles with her keys. We tiptoe through her living room littered with sleeping children on the couch and in sleeping bags on the floor to a tiny back bedroom.
Revelation and sweet sensation in her small breasts and diamond hard brown nipples. We fall onto the bed; I’m fumbling to remove her panties when she pushes me back, pulls up her skirt and pulls down her panties. She lays back with her legs up exposing her sweet pussy in its hairy nest.
“You have a gorgeous pussy a beauty to behold.”
“Looks can be deceiving. The proof of the pudding is in the eating.”
I move my lips within inches of her pussy. “You’re fragrant, fresh, I bet you’re as sweet as nectar and honey.”
“Feel free to try before you buy.”
I extend my tongue and groom the hair along the edge of her vagina. “You feel me feeling you?”
“Knocking at my door so sweetly and discreetly…”
I kiss her gently on her pussy. She reaches down and spreads her pussy open.
She sighs, “What a sweet, sweet first kiss on a first date, first rate, A-1, fun, ahh…”
I hold the kiss for five, ten, fifteen seconds and the flood cums filling, flowing and binding me to her, and an electric feeling, vibrations, bright lights and I’m as high as I have ever been. I lose track of time lost in her.
When my dick enters her pussy, the celebration accelerates explosively.
The night is a delight. The best night of my life without a doubt.
As we drive to the club, I slip my fingers into my new favorite place and extract the honey from her nest and suck my fingers and I’m almost too high to drive.
At the club, I whisper to her and slide my tongue into her ear and massage her breasts until she, excuses herself, comes back and slips me her cum-filled panties.
At the movies she has popcorn, and I delight in licking my cum-coated fingers.
She spends the night, dresses for work, stops by the bed for a goodbye kiss, and I lift her dress and kiss her where it counts. She has to change underwear.
When we sleep together, I sleep upside down to be near her pussy.
“We have to talk. This’s not working for me. You hardly ever talk to me. You dive under my dress as soon as you get close to me. You talk to my pussy more than you talk to me. I feel like a third wheel like I’m being used. More better we quit now before this gets rude and nasty.”
I plead, beg, cry, and threaten all in vain.
The next eight days are the worst days of my life. I now understand what loss is. I now know what it’s like to kick a habit. I drown in despair and depression. I can’t sleep or eat or think straight.
“We have to talk – just talk in a public place. No touching. No sex. Do you understand? Tomorrow at lunch time at River Park, got it.”
I got it. I spend a sleepless night and an anxious morning. I’m at the park an hour early.
We sit on opposite ends of the bench. I can’t help staring at her crotch. She grits her teeth.
“Don’t make this harder than it has to be. I should sue you for alienation of affections. You seduced, tricked, deceived my pussy into needing you and believing that she can’t live without you. You’re a real bastard. You have made my life a living hell since we split up.”
She looks away, gathers her composure. I sneak glances at her crotch. I’m as hard as a steel rod. I don’t know how much longer I can control myself.
She turns back and levels a finger at me. “I’m being held hostage by my pussy. I’m trying to find a middle ground here so work with me.”
I do. We do. We arrange visitation terms, two one-hour visits a week in a neutral setting with the understanding that she and I are not a couple, a pair, lovers or even sex partners. Our contract is for one year. She thinks the infatuation will not last nearly that long.
Ten years later we are each happily married to someone else, and we’re operating under a new contract with almost the same terms as our original agreement.
And, now I have to run. I’m never late for these visitations.
Frederick Foote is the author of the short story collections, For the Sake of Soul and Crossroads Encounters.