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.