I was satisfied, really.
We had come together as the sun burned the fog off trees turned by Autumn the colors of a scatter rug from the 1970s, rust, gold, burnt orange. The air held a bite as we climbed the stairs to our room, cold air swirling up my skirt, over the thigh-high silk stockings I had volunteered to wear.
The door had barely closed when we reached for each other. Not that we had been far apart. When in close proximity to this man, I always find I want to be in closer proximity still, touching, feeling, smelling, tasting.
We had started before we knew we had, standing at the foot of the bed, him barefoot and me in heels, his dick was touching my belly before I realized he was naked. I put my foot on the bed and slipped him into me, a movement so spontaneous, so unrehearsed, so effortless we hardly noticed when it happened, only that it was . . . perfect.
After that, we had done everything we had told each other we would, carried out all our sexual plans — me on my knees before him, his dick down my throat, him behind me, fucking me so hard the mattress scooted off the bed, I had been on top and underneath this man, we had come into each others’ mouths, onto and into the other. I had watched his orgasm coming closer, closer, seen it across his face, felt his hands squeeze my ass, as if to gather me into him as he came.
We had stopped, caught our breath, discussed, recapped, went for more. I told him he was done, finished, kaput. That it was over, for today, that even if he wanted to make love to me for hours more, it was just physically not going to happen. Our bodies, in middle age, had done all they could do, we were sore, exhausted, hungry and thirsty. Even if I would get aroused again, which I doubted, his dick was not going to go again.
“Let it go,” I told him. “Save some for next time.”
We were up, getting dressed in fact. I had put on my bra, his tighty whities were on. We were walking around, looking for our clothes, a sock thrown over a chair, a shoe under the bed. I turned and found myself in his arms, we stopped, kissed. Kissed again.
“Please,” he said, I asked what he was pleading for. “Not you,” he said. “I know you will do it, I know you want it when I do. I’m asking my dick to please, please let me do it again.”
“No, baby, I can’t, I’m worn out,” I told him as his hands found the small of my back, pushed my hips into his. I tasted the skin at the base of his neck, salty and smooth. Tracing his jawline with my fingertips, I felt the pulse in his throat, the smell of him evoking a response from my body I had not expected. I felt the familiar warm syrup feeling in my belly, a twitch between my legs that told me maybe I was wrong.
“C’mon,” he said, his hips swaying side-to-side, a little happy dance-seduction move that never fails to turn me on. “We don’t know when we’ll see each other again. I want all of you I can get, every drop, I need to take all I can with me, please. Don’t you want to, just a little? Please.”
The longer we stood by the bed, his arms around me, his dick is willed into a command performance and rises. My hands find it, maybe . . .
He pushes me down on the bed, tells me he understands I am tender, he loves me, loves my pussy. Kisses it while my thighs are closed, then ever so gently spreads my legs, the softest touch imaginable. I don’t think, just feel, receive, with no thought beyond his mouth on me, his tongue caressing me.
His fingers open me slowly, he is unhurried. His tongue travels the length of me, he swirls it inside me, tastes me, truly tastes me. Licks my clit, huge under his tongue. I cannot think, I am floating on this, feel myself rising, up, up, then tumbling, falling, a freefall that seems endless. I have never come like this, it is drawn out, lasts, takes my breath.
Then he is beside me, kissing me, loving me, loving my orgasm it seems.
“I knew it,” he tells me. “You always have one more in you.”
I was satisfied, really.