You’re walking towards me in the low light of the September evening, an orange-gold haze settled over the city. I see you immediately, a faded grey t-shirt from college and black leggings. Before I can help it, I start grinning at you.
You smile. Your face brightens as your cheeks rise. Your eyes become half-closed crinkles of eye lashes and laugh lines. Your shoulders raise a little bit. You become as gorgeous as the sun setting right over your shoulder.
I see that smile as I slide my face in between your thighs. I can feel your legs tense as the stubble from my beard brushes against your skin. First I tease you. I kiss you over the purple lace of your panties. I can feel the warmth from your body on my lips. You lift your legs, resting them across my shoulders. You lock me in place. I know you’re ready, so I reach up and pull down your panties. I leave them dangling off your left foot. My hands move up your hips and I rest my fingertips in the soft flesh of your ass.
I marvel at your vagina for a moment. At the actual beauty of it. The symmetry and fullness of its shape, the depth of its color, the intricacy of its layers. You groan impatiently, moving your hand from its resting position on your leg and push my head playfully. I slap your thigh in response and you moan. That’s my signal. I run my tongue across your pussy from top to bottom.
The first taste of you is a little salty, that alkali-battery flavor as your essence rolls across my taste buds. I put gentle pressure on you with my mouth, and I trace your lips with the tip of my tongue. Your back arches in response. Another moan escapes from you. I circle your clitoris slowly, deliberately, before I suck it into my mouth. Your body twists and turns each time I inhale, as if I’m sucking with enough force to pull you off the bed. I steal a glance and see you clutching your breast with one hand. The other is on my head, pushing me into you.
Five minutes pass. Ten. I lose track of time and start marking how many times you say “more” or “there.” I count the number of times you pull at my hair. I count how many times I change my style-fast and light, just a flick on the edge of your senses; slow and heavy, putting my weight into my tongue and into you. You become silent as the pressure builds between your legs.
You sit straight up as you approach climax. I can feel your fingers sliding down my neck and back, bracketing my spine between your index and ring fingers. They stop suddenly as you seize up. You gasp. The first orgasm rips through you like a mini-earthquake. I bury my face into you as deep as I can. The second, third and fourth hit like aftershocks. Your fingers hook into my skin, squeezing harder with each convulsion that rocks you. The tension drains out of your legs, your muscles relax. You collapse backwards with a soft thud on the pillowtop cushion beneath us.
I pull my head out from between your legs, and look up at you. Your brown skin rolls forth like an ocean. Your eyes are still closed from the force of how hard your body shook. When you open them, you glance down and see me peeking back at you, my eyes just high enough to make contact with yours.
And then you keep walking.