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A Clear Afternoon
in Chicago
[Moderator's Note:
I've left this submission unrated for obvious
reasons. It was a letter sent last spring to a lover, whose
identity
should now be obvious, and who subsequently insisted that I post
this
piece. -T.]
Boy, it's frustrating.
This morning, the unseasonably cold
temperature and a filling bladder ganged up on my short sleep
cycle to
wake me at 6:30. And, after I get up, I can't get back to bed
(not
that I was particularly sleepy). So now I have to sit here and
watch
you not log in. Sigh.
I'll pass the time
somehow. Where was I? Kneeling in front of a tree
in a park somewhere, I think. You standing before me, the breeze
catching your hair and the airy fabric of your skirt. Concentrate
on
that for a moment -- it could almost lift you away, couldn't
it?
Perhaps if you held out those arms and breathed in, holding very
still, the wind could just pick you up and steal you away with
it.
I'll have to hold
you tighter, then; I certainly wouldn't want that to
happen. You're feeling the breeze against your skin, tasting
it
through the stuff of your blouse and skirt, but you're also feeling
my
hands on your bared hips, rubbing them gently to keep you warm.
(Which works better? The friction of my palms against your skin,
or
the delirious feeling you get just from knowing my hands are
pressed
against you?) And, most of all, you feel my eyes.
I return to kissing
your stomach, my lips barely moving but gliding
across the silken surface of your stomach, painting it as if
with
camel's-hair. It is one of the most frightening, ecstatic things
I
can imagine right now. It is, in fact, the only thing to surpass
the
delight I feel at sliding my fingertips around the waistband
of your
underwear, inserting them slightly underneath in order to taste
the
wonderfully extra-special taboo of your delta and lower hips.
The next move,
I think, is yours. What moves you? I know how
sensitive your skin is; that's why I keep my mouth so feathery
against
you, why I try to make my breath my primary tool, why I move
my
fingers so slow against the rise of your belly. When I look
up again
at you, my eyes find a match across the rise of your stomach
and your
breasts. Your look is not exactly pleading and not exactly demanding,
but somewhere in between: Give Me What I Want. A simple statement
of
fact, one with which I am more than happy to agree.
>From inside
your skirt, my fingers sneak upwards and hook onto its
waistline. Tugging only a few inches down, bringing it over
your soft
hips and ass, is enough to take it completely off your body.
I remove
my hands from underneath it and, its purchase lost, the fabric
slips
to the ground. I return my hands to your waist and, after
contemplating a moment, gently pull your panties off as well.
They
slide down your legs to your feet, leaving you gloriously bare
to the
world.
Think about that
for a moment before I continue. What do you feel?
The breeze, I think, which tickles your body even more insistently
than before, drifting flaxen fingers around your thighs and pubis.
Since you're also leaning up against a tree, I think you can
feel the
bark bite rather distinctly into your back, and smell the wood
and the
leaves heavy in the air. Perhaps it rained not long ago ...
yes.
That would enhance the odor, wouldn't it? Very much so. And
vaguely,
as if from far away (although they must be in one of the groves
only a
few feet away) you can hear the birds sing to you.
Through all of
this sensory input, you feel yourself returned to the
here and now by the warmth of my face pressed against your belly.
I
have begun to lose the control I have held so very tenuously
for the
last few minutes, and cannot keep from shaking while I kiss you.
My
hands have inched around to the small of your back and knead
your
buttocks. I have to concentrate on self-control, or I might
give you
bruises.
Watching, you see
my head slip lower. Then you feel it as well: my
mouth, soft but hungry, matching your vulva. My lips against
yours --
it seems almost comedic. Your scent is a better aphrodisiac
than any
wine or chemical perfume I have ever known, and I kiss you yet
more
urgently. My tongue inches out to feel your slit, and get a
sense of
its length. I can taste your sweat, and perhaps? just a little?
the
maddening taste of your excitement, your gently lubed cunt.
I'm
encouraged. I press harder with the tip of my tongue, and find
passage inside to that wondrous, tangy enclave.
I've been craning
my neck during this operation, and must turn my head
sideways to accomplish this last maneuver. You're aware, through
the
haze of your slightly labored breathing and the electricity you're
beginning to feel in your groin, that perhaps the experience
might be
enhanced by a better position. You find yourself inching backwards,
hoping to gain purchase up the roots of the tree. You can feel
the
bark scratching your neck as you urge yourself against the tree,
but
only dimly, as if in a dream -- later, at home, you will brush
twigs
and ground bark out of your hair and wonder how it got there.
Feeling your muscles
taut with excitement, and noticing you scrabbling
for a better position, I slide my hands down to your inner thighs
and
push out and up, straightening my back as I do so. The result
finds
you lifted slightly off the ground and sitting, effectively,
on my
outstretched hands, that patient tree giving you (and me) enough
support to make the attempt a successful one. I tilt my head
back
slightly and allow myself to revel in your taste, your scent,
in you.
It's almost too
much for you to bear. With one hand pressed against
the bough of the tree to maintain your balance, you bring the
other
down to the back of my head and wrap your fingers in my hair.
Close
your eyes and tilt your head back -- all you want to feel is
my
tongue, pressing and dancing and twirling about. It wants desperately
to know you, and you want oh so much to return the favor. You
push
the back of my head gently into your crotch and begin to draw
your
legs together (a motion which, I'm led to understand, excites
some
women naturally). This action naturally brings your thighs from
my
hands up onto my shoulders, a position I find preferable anyway.
I'm finding it
a bit difficult to breathe with you surrounding my face
and my mouth like this, but what I do breathe includes so much
of you
that I can hardly object. What were the instructions you mentioned
before? Just let your lips and tongue move at random, isn't
that
about it? Perhaps I will take your advice.
Oh, that's good.
It seems to work -- you've let out a mild gasp and
have begun rocking against my face. I can feel your ankles crossed
behind my back but, like the bark on your skin, only at the edge
of my
consciousness. I am too involved in your cunt to worry about
such
details. My hands, around your waist, hold you tighter as my
tongue
moves more and more frantically. With each stroke you rock more
vigorously against me, and above your thighs I hear rapid panting.
If I continue for
much longer, I'm afraid I might come on my own. Not
to worry, however. It's only another minute or so before the
quick
back-and-forth of your hips becomes a vibrato, and your choppy
gasps
escalate almost into moans. The moment right before orgasm always
gives me my second wind; my tongue, beginning to flag, redoubles
its
efforts and directly prods and flicks your clitoris. With a
single,
long shudder, your thighs grind against my cheekbones and you
lean
forward convulsively over my head. You're hoping to expose yourself
to me even further, to hit a single perfect epiphany at the moment
of
orgasm. Although you and I both know it's hardly possible for
me to
be more intimate with you at this moment, it's the effort that
makes
the difference.
After a very long,
very fulfilling come, you relax back against the
tree. Slowly I lower you to the ground, your skirt and panties
in a
disarray around your ass. You open your eyes and, smiling softly,
we
look at each other for a moment. I don't need to say it and
you don't
need to hear it: I love you.
you know it,
your T. |