It seems to be one of those mornings where my browser’s pages will not display, e-mail attachments cannot upload, instant messenger freezes my computer, and the dog next door is insistently yapping away—all adding to the stress-induced coke bottle effect in my neck that the weekend’s libations did not seem to ease out of my muscles. There with my pile of handwritten notes strewn across my desk, a deadline looming, I try rebooting my laptop. The phone rings just as I hear the computer’s gimpy fan shut down.
“Rise and shine, Amber, and good morning. I hope that you are feeling well,” a low, cordial voice purrs. “I was just listening to the cd you left at the house. What if I were to bring it by and help you nurse that hangover? We could go to breakfast and drink a lot of water together.”
“Well hello, Mike,” I chuckle in response, acting as if I were surprised by his call and delighted to be taken away from the task at hand. “It’s a great mix and you are welcome. You hosted a wonderful party last night and I am thankful for our introduction. Could you give me about an hour and a half?”
At first I had thought that I would leave my jacket, but the previous night had been chilly. I came up with the clever idea of planting the music in his stereo—a mix of slow, sultry R&B tunes—so as to leave subliminal suggestions. He was charming, smart, and through my current roommate I had heard that he possessed magic hands. As I waited for the shower water to warm my mind seemed to forget the workload that I had yet to finish and focused on the prolonged sexual tension that remained from the engaging, playful conversations we had during the party.
After a brief greeting he enters the doorway, immediately cups my face in his hands, and brings my lips to his. We exchange only a few gentle kisses before his encompassing embrace propels his tongue into my mouth. Something tells me that I do not have to demonstrate my willingness to be taken, wherever it is that he wants to guide me. He releases me from his hold, places both hands on my shoulders, and gently kisses my forehead.
After an introduction to my lack-of-guard dog and a brief tour of my rental he points out that it is still early and that he would be willing to massage the upper portion of my body, if I were not too hungry. I blush, accepting his offer. He asks if I could provide him with a few items, and I meet him back in the living room with them. After covering the dining table with a blanket and large towel he signals for me to crawl upon the surface and lie down. Once I am on my back he again draws his lips to my forehead, moving his index fingers into my hair, temples, and jaw line. My mind wanders off—body basks in the satisfaction.
Cupping his hands around one ankle, he then drags his firm grip up the length of one calve, repeating the motion until my eyes loose focus on the lamp dangling overhead and finally close. He pauses for a bit and I then feel his warm breath move over the tips of my toes, his fingers probing the incepts of my feet. For nearly a half an hour his deep strokes conjure up moans of pleasure, echoing within the dining room, or at least that is how long it seems while in the throws of his generous offerings. Finally, his moistened muscle engulfs one of my digits, then proceeds to the others—lapping and nibbling at the tips in random intervals. From his angle I am aware that he has an unobstructed view of what lies beneath the hem of my skirt. The rhythm of his tongue is in tune with the muscle fluctuations radiating from the depths of my cranny.
His hands change pace and move to the sides of my thigh. In a somewhat drunken state I mumble “Thank you,” but he remains silent. Just as I begin to melt into the table I feel his hands briefly drift over my puffy folds and he then asks for my free leg. Having to conceal my moans from my slumbering roommate is beginning to excite me. He moves to the far side of the table, bends and fully parts my knees. How very vulnerable I feel splayed before him on the table, a limp ball of flesh, and how I wish for him to take what I so desire to give. I thank him, again, and he responds by inching his fingers under my panties into my wet, warm, wanting passage. They gyrate in shallow, circular motions—gathering my nectar. He frees one finger, and moves it down slightly, into a tighter casing. Immediately my back arches, legs open to the furthest extent, and I release a long whimper. Moving my panties aside to reveal my soft flesh, he laps in rhythm with his dancing fingers. I feel as if, for this moment in time, I am both an instrument and an oasis. He proceeds to intensely devour until my form shutters with oversensitivity, then when he finally ceases I lie motionless n the hard surface, unable to open my eyes.
Guiding me onto my side, I feel his warm body curl up behind me on the table. With one hand gently seizing the back of my neck, he moistens his member along the edges of my fervent furrow, and sinks himself inside of me. As a welcoming gesture, I attempt to slide myself farther onto him but in response he grips my ankles between his calves—commanding complete control over our movement. He dives deep, slowly, in emphasized spurts. I feel my warm reaction begin to drip form between us, down my leg. He increases the force of his thrust, holds me firmly in place, reverts back to the slower pace, and repeats. I can hear the evidence of my arousal, and so can he, with each advance. Collecting the glistening liquid, he raises two fingers to my mouth. As I suckle, he releases. It was a long, strong murmur. When finished he frees his grasp then gently kisses the back of my neck until we both regain composure.
I wobble into a sitting position and attempt to focus my eyes on his form as he dresses himself. My body...has never felt so relaxed. I cannot recall ever having had such an experience in my entire life. I lift my hands to my hair, flip the clump onto one shoulder, and attempt to finger comb the dreadlocks out.
“I can do that for you. Do you have a brush?”
“It’s right there on the counter, inside of my purse, if you would like to grab it.”
“Turn around.”
I comply, sit Indian style, and he then proceeds to carefully detangle my golden locks. As he manages my mess we hear a door open and see my disheveled roommate stumble down the hallway—pausing and squinting at the new sun beaming in from the kitchen window. She gives her belly a few scratches, yawns, and says “Oh, Amber, that cd hook worked a little quicker than I thought it would,” before making her way to the refrigerator.
