I quickly assessed myself in my bedroom mirror: sucked in my gut, rearranged my dress, evaluated my jaw line and light make-up, turned this way and that, made sure the curls were behaving as well as I could manage, and with a heavy breath full of nervous energy and half confidence, I sauntered down my stairs to open my door.
I greeted my guest with a sexy smile, locked eye contact, and an open door invitation. Once you entered my home, I shakily repeated my practiced line, “Netflix is upstairs, but I’m right here.”. *insert long awkward pause* With a half hidden giggle full of tension, I offered, “Would you like a drink?”. “Yes!”, you exclaimed, “Aaaand possibly a smoke?”. We scrambled to the kitchen. You took a beer. We walked out my backdoor to visit the choir of loud nightlife, while we attempted to gather our swirling thoughts.
“I don’t really do this.”, I breathed. “Invite strange men into my home…only to partake in small talk on my back porch.” We shared an intense moment of silence between us. With a questioning and bold glance coming from me, I feel as if my saucy wit kind of saved the day, because you put your cigarette out, opened the backdoor, and then reached down for me. I accepted your gesture, and allowed you to lead me into my own kitchen.
With roles reversed again, I wordlessly commanded a swig of your beer and placed it upon the kitchen table. I took your hand in mine and silently led the way upstairs to my room. Once we walked in, I turned and closed the door to leave us alone in my candle lit fantasy. I pivoted to find your face alight with the subdued lighting and your soul piercing eyes glued to my every movement. With my half made bed as a centerpiece behind you, and the Netflix paused tv glowing in front of you, I found the courage to step forward.
I “fixed” your half untucked shirtails in record time. Your under shirt acted as an iron clad barrier to the enticing warmth of what was hidden beneath. Slowly, I managed to break your prisoned shirt from its previously kept cell. Once free, the billowing shirt was no match for my inept fingers. My mirrored hands gently scraped the taut skin on the sides of your abdomen. You rapidly breathed the chill of my touch in, and your body found immediate height. Once you warmed to my offerings, your gaze became even more striking. I chose to do what I’d been dreaming about for far too long. I traveled my hands up your stomach with more force than the tickles of the afore mentioned practice. My nose followed suit starting with your chest. Your shirt clad body stood no match to the hungry tigress within grasp. I nuzzled your neck, inhaling the wanton smell of male. I nipped. I nibbled. I licked and I sucked. Once I took your earlobe into my mouth, I heard your sharp intake of breathe and felt your body still. I took the moment to override your senses with pleasure. With my hands surrounding your face, and my mouth locked on your jaw line, I gently applied pressure, and we cascaded onto my bed.
We kissed. We explored. We tumbled and we paused. And during a particularly intense moment full of crossed boundaries, you literally flipped me over, with one knee held snug in between my thighs, and the other parading just along the outside. You nuzzled my chest so that I was whimpering and gasping for more. In that moment, you reached far above my left shoulder, grasped what you were searching for, and with remote in hand, gyrated into me while gruffly asking me, “What’s good on TV?”.
If looks could kill…
You laughed. Harder and more genuine than I’ve ever seen manifest from you.
And then you ravished me. Over and over and over again.