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I leave her to review my bookcase and go to the kitchen to fix a couple of drinks. I pour the wine and take my time doing it, choosing the right glasses and opening the bottle with care. Thinking of what to say and do next occupies me. Nothing seems natural and every possibility feels contrived and the stuff of a thousand fantasies, but then she makes it all okay. I sense her presence behind me, the sound of her footsteps approaching, the way her scent increasingly fills my imagination, her body gently pressing against my back, the comforting swoosh of her fabric colliding with my shirt.
‘Is this mine?’ she says, her arm snaking around my torso as she reaches for her wine. Her voice is a whisper, inches from my ear. The words are a thrill and I can hardly move. ‘Thank you.’
She doesn’t move away, her proximity pinning me to the worktop as I hear her take a drink, sensing the coldness of the glass and her exhalation on the back of my neck.
‘That’s nice.’ She says this and takes another sip. I can tell she’s smiling. Unable to think of a single word, I turn around to face her, raise my glass, have a drink. I take her in, as though for the first time, the look of easy promise on her face, the flawless milky skin, the way her hair and make-up look like she barely has to work on either in order to look good, the lack of jewellery, the playful curve of her full lips, the lazy way she raises an arm and fiddles with a button on my shirt.
‘I like this shirt,’ she tells me, a finger slipping inside, her nail teasing the skin that covers my ribcage. ‘And I like this place. Lots of room.’
I say something dumb about not knowing what furniture to buy. It amuses her, exposing the dimples in her cheeks. I want to run my tongue along those facial creases. More than anything, I long to taste her skin.
‘Well, I think it’s a cool place. Books and music and DVDs. The things that are important to you, they’re all on display.’
She declines when I ask if she wants to listen to something and moves back into the living room, her fingers leaving a vacuum when she removes them from my shirt. I watch her walk away, the languorous slink of her body, the hug of her dress, those legs… It’s a form made for following.
‘So this is where the magic happens?’ She’s standing by my desk, the one part of the room that looks as though it’s lived in. There’s a glass half filled with water and papers everywhere, the manuscript stacked untidily, sticky notes and post-its jutting out from the pages like those flaps in a child’s pop-up book. She rests a knuckle on it and wants to know if it’s the next instalment. I tell her it’s something different, something new, but when she starts to enquire I avoid giving answers. The project suddenly feels very stupid and infantile. She warns me that she will find out. In the end, I’ll tell her, and she makes it sound more like a promise than a threat.
While she uses the bathroom I fix some more drinks. It’s several years since I last smoked, but now I really want a cigarette. Perhaps it’s because I can smell it on her, or maybe I just want to do something, instead of what I am doing, which is standing here, useless and inert. I hadn’t planned for this, didn’t prepare myself. It feels like being trapped.
And then she’s standing before me again; it feels like she has no concept of personal space. She rests a hand on my arm, just below the elbow and she watches me as she drinks her wine.
‘I’m sure you’ve heard this before, but I’m a big fan,’ she says, draining the glass. ‘I don’t want you to think I’m some weirdo or anything. I love your books. Normally, I don’t work in fiction but I asked to be at the launch tonight just so I could meet you. You didn’t notice me but I was following you all evening and I did it so you would run into me. And you did. And now we’re here.’ She laughs. ‘God, I sound like a stalker, don’t I?’
I try and reassure her, telling her no, of course not; it’s a lovely thing to hear. I’m about to pour her another glass, but she stops me.
‘That’s enough, for now anyway. Maybe you could show me the bedroom.’
The note of uncertainty in her voice is adorable, the cracks suggesting she’s actually human and not just some vision I’ve constructed. Still the smile remains, enigmatic and saucy. I take her hand and guide her through the flat. She whispers ‘No lights’ when we enter the bedroom and, standing behind me, puts her arms around me to caress my chest as I stand and run hands over her hips.
‘Keep doing that,’ she says, her voice dropping to a languid purr. I can feel her breath on my neck, electrifying, before she starts to kiss it, her nose tracing my jawline. Perfume and promise fills my senses. My touch on her dress grows harder, more intense. She begins to breathe in rhythm with my moves, inhalations coming in quick, needy bursts. Her fingers unbutton my shirt, pulling it off and giving her lips access to my shoulders. The kisses escort ankara get increasingly fierce, nipping the flesh with her teeth. As the shirt comes away, her hands roam across my back, fingernails tracing first shoulder blades and then up and down my spine. I don’t want to move away. Her presence is intoxicating, the kisses on my skin incredible. I get to sense each one, even the little packets of moisture left by her lips moments after she’s moved on.
Clumsily, my hands move to her arse, making her grind into mine. Every touch I make seems to elicit a response from her, a quickening. She makes short gasps as she explores my belly with her fingers. Never have I been more relieved that it’s still in pretty good shape. She mumbles something about loving my body as she undoes my belt quickly. I respond by pulling the hem of her dress up, taking in the hot silk of her skin. It’s interrupted with lace; her briefs. Her mouth leaves my back long enough for her to tell me to take them off. I do, entering the material via the back and sides to carefully ease them down. There’s resistance as they’re maneuvered over her arse; I can only visualise in my mind the gusset peeling away before I let them drop, sliding along her thighs and over her knees. Her legs shuffle to make their passage to the floor easier. She’s reaching into my pants, pushing them down. As if by accident, she lets her fingers brush against my cock; the sensation stops my breath as she sighs, satisfied.
‘I’m sorry darling,’ she says, keeping her body taut against mine as she shifts around to face me. ‘I’m sorry, I just can’t wait. It has to be now.’
I can hardly see her face, the light from outside the bedroom failing to reach us. But I can feel her easily enough, the dress stopping just below her belly, the sensation of her smooth body beneath, the press of her into me, grinding my cock, sandwiching it between our torsos. My hands are on her arse cheeks, loving their roundness. She breaks my grip without forcing it, moving away slightly before turning around, bending over and resting one hand on the bedstead. With her other, she reaches behind her, finds my cock, guides the head over her pussy. She lets me experience her wetness, gently probing the entire length of her labia, her breaths quickening, her hold on me soft yet sure. I’m told to push. And I do, and it’s all those things I want it to be — easy, wet, warm, tight but not too tight, utterly inviting, the gasp she makes followed by a laugh, an involuntary chuckle, as I enter her completely, quicker than I should, but I don’t care because it’s been such a long time and I’m too greedy and needy to be subtle or smooth or artful. I forget it could be like this. For a moment, I pause, deep inside her, flexing my muscle, gripping the top of her thighs, index fingers pressing her gut. Then I start to pump, hard, driving from above for that slightly extra length, the briefest feeling of air on my shaft each time before slamming her, listening to my own grunts, imagining — or thinking I do — her getting tighter as she cries out. It could happen over several minutes or just seconds and I give myself up to the moment, enjoying every impression, the wet slapping noises, the sounds we both make, her hot skin, the arching of her back towards me, her backward thrusts as she accepts my cock, the congealed smells of scent and juice, my guileless working of her pussy, just wanting more and more and deeper and rougher, until I give myself up to it completely, stopping completely inside her, her thighs tense as she rises to take it.
‘My love,’ she says from down there, ‘my love, have you come?’
I haven’t of course, but it doesn’t matter because when I ask her she tells me not to worry; she came a couple of times, she adds with a bold smirk. Couldn’t I feel it? Didn’t I know? Could I not tell? Truthfully no, I was just too caught up in it, and I pull out, still hard, but fatigued, letting her stand.
‘Would you mind if I have a cigarette?’
She faces me, squeezes my cock, playful, smirking, calling me a big boy. My cheek is kissed, her lips light. With a final sigh that seems to summarise her feelings, she pulls her dress down and slides past me to leave the bedroom. I let her go, taking in the receding steps as she moves around the flat, looking for her bag. There’s a faintly ridiculous moment as I remember I’m still stood exactly where I was, clothes dumped by my ankles and I dress quickly as it can’t be a pretty sight. I’m a middle aged man and feeling it.
I use the toilet, even though nothing really happens and I’m only there for breathing space. At last I’m going soft, whilst the excitement and pronounced heart rate still feel very present. I imagine what she will say and do when I face her and, strangely, they’re all negative feelings. What I want least of all is for her to be preparing to leave, and it’s with that thought I go to find her. It turns out she’s in the kitchen, escort etlik smoking and drinking what remains from her or my glass of wine. No shoes, which is promising. She hears me and turns.
‘Are you okay?’ Her smile is genuine and there’s a hint of childish hurt in her eyes that I’ll recognise and grow to love more over the coming months. It isn’t what it looks like, more an ‘I’ve been naughty’ expression of satisfaction and desire. I answer with a grin and stand by the cupboard, facing her, hands in pockets. Within, I’m desperate for her to stay. The merest hint that she’ll go for her mobile phone, ask for the number of a taxi firm or mention her room back at the hotel brings only dismay. She does none of these things. Instead she talks to me about coming, wanting to know why I didn’t. When I tell her that I hardly ever do, suggesting she may be in for a long night, she takes it as a challenge.
‘Wouldn’t you like to feel it explode inside me?’ she says, for effect dipping an index finger on her chin and putting on a naughty schoolgirl pose. ‘Or is that you watch too much porn? Maybe you’d like to spill it over my face, in my mouth, knowing it’s running down my throat.’ She clutches her neck, running a hand down towards her chest with a shudder. In response, I tell her all those things sound great and she’s welcome to try and help, but it really isn’t a problem. I’ve always been like that. If she wants to take on the mission, then fine. Absolutely fine. More than fine.
We jaw for a little while, or at least she talks and I listen to her go on about a man she’s sort of seeing, but it’s not, well you know, and she smiles at me and touches my face. I pry. When she says ‘sort of seeing’ what she really means is ‘engaged to’ and I’m left feeling like several shades of shit. If it isn’t what she wants, then why doesn’t she put the poor guy out of his misery and call it off with him, I suggest, but that’s as far as the conversation goes and probably for the best. Awkward silences take over. Far below, a car sounds its horn and someone shouts. She goes to retrieve her knickers from the bedroom. When she doesn’t return, I go to see what’s up. There she is, leaning against the doorway, holding the lace up with one finger and staring at me.
‘Shall I put these back on, or do you have any better ideas?’
Back to business, and my only thought now is to kiss her, kiss her and hold her to me. It’s a corny plan, but she plays, accepting my lips hungrily and our tongues meet. She moans into my mouth as I force an arm around her waist and pull her body to mine.
‘Someone’s ready for more,’ she says, working into my groin with her belly and clasping her arms around my shoulders. I feel something on my neck. It’s the unwanted knickers, still clutched before she loses them, the vacuum of noise as they meet the floor. Her leg extends around mine, heel digging into the back of my knee hard, until I nearly buckle. I clasp her at the lower thigh, moving a hand up, luxuriating at how fine she is, the muscles, the warmth of her body. My hand slips underneath her leg, running up to her arse, squeezing, exerting another groan of pleasure. Whilst continuing the kiss, I reach for her knee pits, both of them, and lift her off the floor, carrying her over to the bed. For a moment, she’s completely in my power, under my control, and then I lay her on the duvet, massaging her sides tenderly as I work on her neck with my mouth. The natural aroma of her is beguiling to me. Each kiss, every nip with my teeth, is returned by her gasps, the thickened breaths.
This time, I want to experience her entire body. I reach beneath her, forcing her back to arch and finding the zipper on her dress. It’s eased down, deliberately slowly, and while I never have to force it she flips over onto her front for ease of access, which makes it better for running my tongue along her gradually exposed spine. The fastening finishes at her lower back, the cleft depression before the pit of her backside, a part of the body I’ve always loved, and now love to nuzzle, as the dress is worked off her shoulders and I move the sleeves down the arms. The peeling of clothes from her is easy, but I refrain from rushing the action. There’s no hurry and I don’t want any of this to be quick. The dress is history. I tease her with kisses planted on her arse cheeks, burying my face in them, moving my mouth deliberately close to her anus and pussy, which she willingly begins to expose for me.
I move away, kneel over her on the bed and nibble her shoulder. She raises it in reply, which lets me move a hand underneath and turn her over. There’s a coquettish giggle as she actually clasps her arms over her chest. It’s a futile gesture. I ask her to take my shirt off for me as she mumbles something about not being able to help it if she’s a big girl. Oh my god, I like big girls, is what I might say, yet it may just be a thought and I kiss her again, escort demetevler breathing heavily into the skin between her tits as the touches with my lips and tongue move down. When I’m not sucking at the flesh beneath one of them, taking generous amounts into my mouth, I’m telling her that I think her tits are wonderful. I’ve wanted to play with them since I first saw her because they’re naturally magnificent. They are. Not ridiculously big but a good size and firm, they deserve all the playtime they get, my hands levered into the side of each one, my kisses spiralling them, one at a time, steadily working towards the nipples, making her stiffen to glorious prominence when I eventually pull on the aureoles, taking all I can into my mouth whilst shaping them with my tongue.
‘Oh my love,’ she says, letting her arms grip on my torso, doing no work, which is fine. I want to soak into her body, experience it all, open her, ignore her comments about how wet she is because I’m not ready yet to help with that. The tease is everything, the slow and steady movements along her trunk, smelling her body as my kisses make it to her belly, and what a beautiful belly she has — it isn’t exactly flat but it’s gorgeous, and it lifts to meet my mouth. Her stomach is crowned with a luscious navel, which I explore by licking both around and inside it. My hands have been working on her legs, fingers tracing lines up and down smooth, hot thighs. Those legs are now carefully prised apart; she’s unresisting, and I feel the mixture of softness and heat as I move closer to her pussy. Her breathing thickens. I place myself between her legs, taking long, deep kisses of the skin just above her knees and working upward, the heady smell of her sex getting nearer. She’s begging me to satisfy her now, planting feet on my back and trying to draw me towards her. It makes me more determined to draw the moment out, fucking with her head by pausing over her pussy and just breathing on it before returning my attention to her legs, or pretending to let my tongue brush her lips accidentally. It all works. When finally I lick the flesh around her pussy, wanting nothing more than to rush my mouth into it but drawing it out a little longer, she’s going wild, grabbing at my hair, and pushing animal noises through clenched teeth.
Wet as she is, the whiff of her juice invading my senses, her pleas to me that I come on, come on, I try and make it last as long as I can. The truth is I want it to speed up just as badly. I’ve been hard since the moment she was standing by my bedroom door, playing with her knickers. It’s an image that will stay with me for months, the expression of easy swagger, like she knows I’ll take her for sure, my attempts to work out whether she wants it hard and fast again or if she likes to be coaxed and played with, explored for the spots that make her respond best. It takes a gargantuan mental effort not to throw her down and fuck her brains out, instead cupping her arse cheeks and lifting her off the bed slightly, making her legs fall apart and, with infinite care, running my tongue along her cunt lips, already tasting her, breathing onto her skin quite deliberately, unable to resist for a moment and circling her, savouring the reaction I get. She calls me a fucker and then starts saying please, please, as my tongue moves along the taint and circling her arsehole, around and over it, before going back up and entering her. I take a long lap along the length of her cunt, letting my tongue move slow and deep so that I can taste everything and make her like it. She does. She pulls my hair, making me look up and meet her fierce gaze and she tells me to stop fucking around, but I just smile and go back to what I was doing and I can tell it’s working for her. There’s a quiver from her body as she comes from my tongue, or maybe she just experiences a thrill of pleasure. Her hand leaves my head and she uses her fingers to part her lips before me, exposing and pushing out her clitoris. It’s engorged and I take it in my mouth, sucking on the nub, caressing it with my tongue. She cries. Then she releases a long, whistling breath, the tension in her body flooding away as it sags onto the bed and I know she’s climaxed.
There’s a vibration from her legs and her breath seems to shiver. I deliver one final kiss to her pussy and clamber onto the bed to lie down beside her, pulling her to me. She rests a hand on my chest and tells me it was lovely, just lovely, she doesn’t think she’s ever been played with like that before. I kiss her head so that I can smell her hair, take in her fragrance. The press of her tits against my body is enough to drive me crazy and I let her know. I want her on top of me, crushing those tits into my chest.
‘You like that, do you?’ she says, playful again, while she undoes my belt. ‘That’ll have to wait, because now it’s my turn to play, all right?’ Her turn begins with the action of carefully easing the rest of my clothes away, pulling my trousers off and hooking her fingers into my socks so that everything is stripped in one easy movement. She takes my earlier position, placing herself between my legs, hands resting on my thighs.
‘Man, that’s a big cock.’
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