Sometimes, on Sunday mornings, I
come to the office before doing laundry down on Avenue F.
The place
is a wreck, a flash back to the 1970s when wood paneling was in vogue, only
three decades later and worse for wear.
I picture
you knocking on the door one Sunday, an unexpected visitor dressed in a low cut
blouse and a short skirt.
Even
standing just inside the door, you seem so soft to touch, your hair framing
your face, your lips shimmering under the office light.
I imagine
you in candle light.
I invite
you for a tour, and you brush against me on your way passed, my fingers
touching your fingers, though your blouse reveals the swell of your breasts,
and the tips of your nipples poke against your blouse so rigid I need no
imagining to take their shape.
Inside,
beyond the view of the front, more decks, lay out board, several tables, shape
out a landscape of hard edges, nothing so soft as you seem, making me ache to
hold you, and when you turn to ask me what’s next, I ease close, wrapping you
up in my arms so that the points of your breasts press against my chest, and my
swelling desire pressed against you.
My mouth
finds your mouth, and for a moment, we cease to breathe, not even moving except
for swaying, you pressing so close you feel like a part of me. My hands rise,
slipping under your blouse, my moist palms cupping around each breast as if an
article of clothing as our mouths still struggle to accommodate each other, my tongue
seeking your tongue in a teasing dance. Every part me pressing against every
part of you as my hands ease off your blouse, then more clumsily, drag off my
skirt, too, so that I can feel your flesh against my flesh, even though the
office is cold, and full of harsh light.
Then,
pressed against you, I feel us swaying again, like a dance with no need of
music, just flesh against flesh, slowly rubbing, slowly finding the right
spaces in which the two of us fit together, our mouths still connected, each
breath a turmoil of desire, my fingers feeling for the clasp of your skirt
until that falls, too, and again with less skill, I release myself so that
between us is only my growing desire, pressing into you, seeking a way to get
even deeper.
But in this
place there is only the table, flat, hard, yet long enough for us to lie on,
and I ease you up on it, and lay you down on it, and then, I spread your legs –
my hand easing up into the moist split my fingers following the rippled skin
until I find the spot that makes you shutter. Then, I ease my face into the
place where my fingers had been, tasting you, the tip of my tongue easing
around you, edging up into you, circling the small swell of hardened skin that
makes you shiver, and your shivering makes me shiver, but I won’t stop.
I love the taste of
you. I have imagined it since the first time we met, imagining my sampling the
taste of each part of you, your mouth, your neck, your thigh – and yes this.
I ached to enter
you, but I’m not hard yet, always too nervous at first, growing hard, then
soft, making my tongue and fingers do what I can’t yet do with the rest of me,
my mouth rising again, easing across your belly, searching for your mouth as I
press myself against you, my naked shape against you, feeling myself grow
harder just from the contact, then finally hard enough to ease into you, me
swelling up inside of you, feeling you tighten around me, not just between your
legs, but your arms, your mouth, all of you taking me in as if we could really
become on, moving together in a dance that grows more and more powerful as we
embrace, in and out, up and down, my tongue in your mouth, your tongue in mine,
me reaching up inside of you until I can bear it no more and let loose…
For a long time, we
lay there like that, me still wanting to swallow you, my mouth seeking yours,
though more tenderly than before, a kind of tease, tempting fate that we might
work ourselves up to it again. But of course, I still have to go to laundry, so
we just kiss for a while instead.
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