Someone asked me today to rate my 10 favorite partners (out of more than 140) from more than two decades of illicit adventure. It’s not a hard and fast list. My mood changes, seasons change, something will trigger an especially vivid memory — you know how it works.
But for today, this one was in the top 10 — not for any risky scenario, or because it involves some kind of kink. This was just a short-term situation — we only got together four times, always at her place — but it was still extremely memorable.
I place this one about a decade ago, making me in my mid-40s and her in her mid-30s. We’d talked off and on for a couple of years before that, though, after making each other’s acquaintance in a Yahoo chatroom. She had shortish curly dark blonde hair, great curves (especially her hips) — and she was a nurse. I don’t fixate on any one occupation, but I do have a thing for nurses. Always have.
Anyway, her online pictures were always short on scrubs and long on lingerie and stockings. I flirted shamelessly. She fended me off, but only to a point. It was playful banter, and I had pretty much accepted that things weren’t going to progress beyond that. I was fine with it. If you go through life pissed at everyone who doesn’t want to get it on with you, that’s a recipe for a miserable existence.
But one night she flirted back … and then again, and again. I didn’t put much stock in it, at first, because the lines had been pretty clearly drawn before. Then she asked me for my number (promising that she wouldn’t call without texting first, so as not to get me in trouble). So I gave it to her, and we talked a few times now and again. True to her word, she always texted first. I didn’t push for a meeting, figuring that she liked to do things on her own schedule, but I also made it clear that I would love to get together.
(She also sent more pictures, showing a lot more than her chat profile picture revealed — including a shot of her clitoral piercing, which I’d seen in pictures but never encountered in person.)
One Friday night, I was on my own and running late to an arts event when my phone buzzed. She wanted to know if we could talk. I called her, and she didn’t waste any time in asking if I wanted to come over. I said, “Text me the address and directions,” and turned the car around. I never made the event.
When I got to her apartment, she opened the door wearing a white bathrobe and nothing else. I could see a lot of soft tan skin. No sooner did the door close than she threw her arms around me and started kissing me — sweet, deep, urgent kisses tasting of white wine.
I love kissing. Not everyone does, and I can adapt to that — but here was someone who clearly loved it as much as (if not more than) I did. There was no small talk. There was only kissing, and me untying her bathrobe, and her pausing the kisses just long enough to undress me and lead me to the bed in her studio apartment.
I kissed my way down to her breasts, then down over her tummy. She opened those soft, smooth thighs — and there was that piercing. I was conscious of being extremely gentle at first, because I’d never encountered something like that before and I definitely didn’t want things to turn painful. I suppose I was a little too careful, because the first words out of her mouth since I entered the apartment were “Flick it with your tongue.”
So I did — and before long, my fingers were joining in the play as well. She had her hands on the back of my head and her thighs clamped on me, and her hips were bucking along in rhythm with her ragged breathing. She raised them hard and held my mouth to her, letting out a shaky gasp — and the next thing I knew, she was pulling me up to her and kissing me even harder than she had before while her hands fumbled for my cock.
She guided me into her, raising her legs as high as she could. Then she wrapped them around my waist, pulled me down to her and started kissing me again. My head was spinning. I couldn’t even move inside her at first, until I caught my bearings. Then I started — slowly at first, then faster and more urgent.
She never took her lips off mine, never untwined her tongue from mine, the whole time. We were moaning into each other’s mouths when she slammed her hips hard up against mine and I emptied myself. I lay there inside her, our kisses softer now but no less deep.
We cuddled for a bit, making small talk in between kisses. Then the kisses got urgent again, and I got hard again, and I moved just so and was inside her again — and we repeated what we’d just done a bit earlier, and then after another 15 minutes or so of comedown kisses, I had to go.
She was still wearing the robe, open down the front, when I wrapped my arms around her waist and gave her one last long deep goodnight kiss.
That’s how it was, over each of our subsequent encounters — only sometimes the robe made it all the way off. I’d come in, our mouths would find each other and we’d find the bed. It was hungry, and urgent, and insistent — passion stripped of pretense.
It ended, as so many of these things have, when she started seeing someone single. We had one more time together before their first date, one between the first and second, and one more between the second and third. After that, they were official.
Even so, it was some intense fun while it lasted. I still have a thing for nurses, obviously — and I can’t see a white terrycloth bathrobe without remembering my hands undoing hers, while we kissed like lovers about to be separated forever.
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/c8fy56/chardonnay_kisses_truestory_xpost_from