Wine in my blood.
Music in my veins.
You in me.
Wine in my blood.
Music in my veins.
You in me.
Around and around I go.
Slow my spinning? Never. No.
Faster and faster. Can’t catch my breath.
I can not, will not stop to rest.
Technically it was the Gulf of Mexico. And I was a teenager… with the lovely tight body that comes with youth, skin brown from a summer spent on a lake further north. My parents ran with a conservative crowd, and were close with several families. In the middle of a very hot August four sets of the parents, including mine, decided to split the cost of a large beach house and take a last minute vacation together. It was then that I got friendly with one of the sons of my parents’ friends, a boy who had been a mere acquaintance before. He was three and half years older, which seemed like eons back then.
But a day’s drive from home, white sandy beaches and a lack of clothing tend to make traditional barriers among teenage social sets dissolve like grains of sugar into iced tea. Stolen kisses led to the stealthy exploring of each other’s bodies when our parents weren’t looking. And when they were looking, we struggled to appear nothing more than casual friends.
One afternoon, under the guise of sand-dollar hunting, we swam further out into the gulf than usual. And then, without discussion, let the waves carry us further down from our stilted house on the beach. At last, a safe distance from our parents’ eyes, he pulled me close. My legs wrapped around his waist and my arms around his neck. I could feel his erection pressing against the crotch of my swimming suit. I sank deeper in the water so my breasts were hidden under the foaming tide and he slowly ran one hand under the base of my bikini top, massaging my recently formed C-cup. I wanted him to touch my nipples terribly. I knew how good that felt. But instead of remaining content with teasing my rosy pink petals, his hand dipped low, low, lower and he began to gently stroke along the edge of my bikini bottoms.
I nodded my permission as he moved them aside and gently spread my young pussy lips. His fingers on me were sending jolts of desire all over my body. Then, he slipped his trunks down slightly and moved my suit completely aside. And in he went. It was delicious being out in the hot sun with people not too far away being so very naughty, and only the waves hiding our entwined bodies. So that people didn’t suspect, we refrained from kissing and instead just looked into each other’s eyes the entire time. He pulled out after several lovely strokes and came in the ocean. I didn’t come at all because that was before I understood that girls could too. So while it was wonderful, I was left desperately wanting. Looking back, I realize I basically spent an entire week edging. God, if only I had known then what I know now…
If the sex had been mediocre, would I be as interested? If he had fumbled when he touched me, being too gentle or too rough, would I want him as badly. If his kisses had turned me cold instead of lighting a fire deep within me, would I be replaying each moment as I bring myself to a frantic orgasm? Continue reading
He’s invading me. Gently. It’s so different. And so good.
But there are boundaries. Lines. Rules. No texts after five. She’s home then. I’ll call you first, he says.
Thank goodness for the distance between us. That will keep us safe.
It’s the old cliché. High school love, rekindled.
He’s not mine to claim. And why should he be? I didn’t claim him before. My damaged soul was too fearful of pain and my dreams too broad to take that risk.
In his arms it felt like coming home, a brief respite from my crazy world.
I feel like I’m empowering him, showing him the true reflection of who he is and can be in the reflection of my love. But at what price? The sting of reality just pierced my chest.
Spending more time than usual with a girl at the office, he says.
The pang surprised me. We talked of him having adventures with others recently and I was fine. But the crunch in my heart when I read his text was physical.
That’s how much I’ve opened up to him. That’s how much I’ve let him in. How much I’ve let my guard down.
When we were teenagers, we made love as teenagers. Exploring. Discovering. Learning. Fumbling. Confusing. Unknowing.
But this weekend, when the heavens aligned and we were able to arrange an hour alone in each other’s company for the first time in over a decade, I learned that he is a teenager no longer. He is a man now. With a man’s knowledge. With a man’s skill. With a man’s hunger. With a man’s patience. And with a man’s touch.
Under that now-skilled touch I burned with the flame of a woman who knows her body. And what it can do. Now he knows too. With his fingers, mouth and cock he played me like fine instrument, bringing me to crescendoing orgasms over and over and over, pausing only to carefully hold and cherish his bird who has always flown away.
Featherlight kisses intermingled with fiercely passionate attacks, giving way to my surprised gasps and moans as he took me again and again and again. At the end, after he had caused me to puddle to the point of embarrassment, my heart raced to the finish line with him as he spurted love’s fluid, thick and white. He released with an animal’s growl, his eyes on my smiling face as he marked me from breast to chin.
All this stolen on an air mattress in the floor of his wife’s mini van.