I know you won’t be reading this; we’re done – good and proper. It’d make you cry. Stiff and sad. Your dick hard pressed up against your pants, your eyes welled up with tears.
We missed our chance. Or rather, we had no chance. So we took a chance. We took place in stolen moments. Lots of moments, a year of moments. Moments of unparalleled passion, of kisses up and down your body, of your face between my legs, kisses in alleys and walks in the rain. It’s been a good long time – and I still miss you. But I can write this now.
You know how Tolstoy has that bit about happy families all being alike? But the unhappy ones are each unhappy in their own way? Are all love affairs alike as well, do they all boil down to the same raw ingredients, the same biological effects and by products controlling everything? I don’t know, in part because feeling those moments – you throwing me against my apartment door as soon as it shut behind you, pushing my bra straps slowly down over my shoulders, my pussy aching at your touch, wanting the moment to last forever – in those moments I couldn’t help but think *so this is what people were talking about*.
I do know that what I remember, what I’ve chosen to remember. That time in the Botanical Gardens? The nation’s capital, a balmy June day, my first time there, sweating within minutes and you in a suit. Wandering aimlessly, hands held, walking through grasses and mulch. We came to a clearing, a secluded spot over looking a field. A shaded bench, a willow tree, and not a sign of anyone else. You sat down, I climbed atop, kissed your lips, your forehead, rubbed your freshly shaven head, my tongue in your ear, your hands on my breasts, under my shirt, popping them out of my bra, a quick look around as you pulled up my shirt and took my nipples in your mouth – both of them at the same time- your favorite thing to do, and I rest my hands on your scalp, arch my back, and forget we’re in public, hiding in plain sight, on a summer morning.
Lost in my revelry, you push me up — “stand up, stand up” you whisper. In a flash, you’ve unbuckled, unzipped your pants, and I’m surprised but not shocked, and yes, of course, I wore a skirt – I push down my panties and stash them in my purse, your cock firm and gleaning, I want you inside me. Again, I climb atop you, straddle you, and you push into me. I literally can’t help but pause right now, while I’m writing, and slide a finger in my cunt and lick it, just thinking about that day. But your stupid suit – and your stupid job, a few miles away, to which you need to return —
*”Get up, get up, get up” “Sit down, sit down, sit down”* and I do, my thighs slick, glad I’m not going anywhere afterwards– and you stand before me and shove your beautiful cock in my mouth, down my throat. And of course, after that, there was not a drop on your pants or anywhere else, I made sure of that. Then, like regular people, we sat, my head upon your shoulder, enjoying the gardens.
Lighter moments, riding a crowded train together, and as people got off (the train! your mind, my mind, always the gutter) and spaces opened up, we didn’t sit together but across from one another. I smirked, always wanting a game. You started texting me, commenting on my tits. My shirt, which you said would dissolve in water, and my bra which didn’t shield our fellow passengers from the nipples your attention made erect. (I don’t apologize for my nipples, they do as they like.)
The time you kissed me in the snow – and now, I live in this place with not a chance of snow -and you said I’d never kissed you like that before. Gave you everything. All of me.
The time we had three hours and you made me come five-ish times – standing up, on the floor, with your mouth, fucking my tits, spanking me, on your lap- the time you discovered that I squirt – and how proud you were to show me the evidence on your face. Like you wanted me to be proud – and I was. And my lame requisite LinkedIn jokes that followed on both occasions, which you insisted were funny.
The last time before I left, we fucked on my apartment floor. Witness to the plain fact I would be gone in days, I wanted you inside me, on top of me, under me, behind me, I wanted you in all the ways, one last time. We knew it would be it, even though it wasn’t the last time we had sex. It would be over. I came hard, and fast, all my nervous energy ignited into a forceful orgasm that got started as soon as you touched me. Then, you thrusting inside of me, loving how I feel after I came, and me feeling like I’d come again and again – in that space, hotness, pleasure, closeness, tenderness – I started to sob. Not silent tears, running down my face. Uncontrollable, full-on. It felt so good, and was so sad.
You said I was strong, guided us in our goodbye. What we had couldn’t live in spread out moments, waiting months on end. We went all in, knowing we couldn’t beat the house. (Cliche, I know.) You kissed me as long as you could, allowing for conversation, and of course for me to have your cock in my mouth, and for you to nibble on my clit. That last time – there was no roughness between us, we just needed to touch, remember, hold, kiss. I wanted a proper goodbye, and I got that.
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/4r5i21/bell_bottom_blues_mfbittersweet