It was supposed to rain tomorrow. Now it’s not supposed to rain tomorrow. The heat wave goes on, apparently.
Still, the original forecast put me in mind of a rainy Sunday afternoon, just a few years ago.
Let’s get the beginning and the end out of the way first, shall we, and focus on the middle.
We met on Craigslist, in May 2017, when I was 54 and she 28. It ended when she, though polyamorous at heart, decided to focus on her core relationship for a while. I met him once, after she and I had shared that Sunday. Of course, he knew. There was no awkwardness in the meeting. I like him, and I don’t begrudge their exclusivity one bit.
Prequel to the rainy Sunday: The Thursday night before, we met at a bar in my neighborhood for wine. We went for a walk; we kissed in a pool of darkness between streetlights; my fingers stroked their way through soft hair between her thighs and made her knees buckle in a passageway near the bar.
(It wasn’t the bar from the first post, nor the same passageway. Secluded spots in my home area are my specialty.)
Now, the Sunday, and we’ll stay here the rest of the way — well, nearly all the way to the end.
I invented this or that meeting of creatives, giving me a few — but not infinite — unfettered hours. She lived alone, a 20-minute drive away, in a small house on a side street.
She met me at the door with a kiss and a long embrace: barefoot, smiling, wearing a red knee-length silk robe that tied at the waist. She was half a head shorter than I; she had fair skin, short dark curly hair, wide knowing eyes and a mouth that curled easily from a happy grin or a soft lip-bite into a conspiratorial half-smirk.
Her house reflected her passions: Music, activism, the working class. She herself was in the trades, and had sent me pictures of herself in hardhat and jeans as well as in silk — or in nothing.
We held the embrace for several minutes; I could feel her soft heavy breasts under the robe, her sweet slender curves, the gentle swell of her from the small of her back into the hips I remembered so well from the Thursday night before. I heard no sounds but the rain and her murmurs as our lips met. I was in a delicious space, caught between never wanting the moment to end and desperately needing to be inside her.
She broke the kiss, took my hand, led me wordlessly to her bedroom, turned to face me and kiss me again.
Though I knew my time with her was finite, there was no rush. Everything seemed to slow down. I don’t remember how my clothes came off, but the sense memory of undoing her robe, of red silk slipping from her shoulders to pool on the floor, is permanently etched into my brain.
She stretched out on the bed, raised her arms languidly. She didn’t shave there, either. That was new. I didn’t mind one bit. She was nothing but unabashedly herself, in every moment — and if you think I loved her for every aspect she revealed of that self, and she loved me in return, you wouldn’t be wrong. She wasn’t shy with her body, or her heart, and responding in kind was as natural as breathing.
I covered her in kisses, from lips to neck to collarbone and down, all the way to her instep — then back again, up the other side. My mouth found one nipple, then the other, my fingers retracing their course from Thursday night — but this time, with no leggings waistband in the way.
My lips followed their lead, and soon I was on my stomach, face between her thighs, her hands on the back of my head as I gently parted her lower lips with my tongue and kissed her pussy as I’d kissed her mouth just minutes earlier. Still, there was no rush. We had mere hours; we had forever.
“Your turn,” she said, and sat up with a wicked smile. I scooted up the bed, rolled onto my back. She never broke eye contact as she stroked my cock, kissed the tip, took the head between her lips and then took me all the way in.
There was no rush. We had mere hours; we had forever. At the same time, I needed to be inside her.
She took a condom from the nightstand and lay back on the bed with that irresistible smirk.
We moved together in easy waves, mouth to mouth, her arms around me, her calves on mine, my hands in her hair. She broke the kiss, leaned her head back, closed her eyes and smiled.
“Just like that,” she said. “Slow, just like that.”
The earth didn’t move when we finished. She gripped my shoulders, dug in her nails just a bit, closed her eyes tightly, nodded hard and breathed a soft “Yes, now, yes …”
She lay in my arms afterward for a few minutes, then smiled and asked if I was hungry. She’d made chicken and dumplings. We dressed — well, she put on the robe again and I put on my shirt and boxers — and we ate at her kitchen table and talked about so many things that I couldn’t begin to list them all. She told me about her lovers, and about her crush on a woman who worked at a restaurant we both liked.
“We should try to pick her up together sometime,” she said with a giggle. Had things played out differently, we might have given it a shot sometime.
We finished the late lunch. Outside, it was still raining. She took me to the back porch, pointed out her little garden, told me her plans to expand it. Then she turned and kissed me and said, “Come back to bed with me, one more time before you go.”
This time, she left the robe on, but untied and open. And things were — not rushed, perhaps, but more urgent. And when we finished, we both cried out and kept up the insistent movements of our hips until there was nothing left but to collapse in a spent tangle.
Wherever she is on this hot summer day — whoever she is loving, in whatever way, with that fierce warm heart of hers, I hope she is receiving a double measure of love in return.
As for me, I am sitting — not entirely alone, not fully in company — in a cool place, looking out at a city sweltering in July heat. But in my head, the skies are low and gray and the only sounds are a sigh of breeze, the patter of drops on garden leaves, the whisper of silk on skin.
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/cfqfxu/rain_and_red_silk_true_story_xpost_from
u/SexyLena69
Perfect!???