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| A
Clear Afternoon in Chicago
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[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.
--