This is a day late, because yesterday was the Fourth of July and I was engaged in celebrating freedom by eating hot dogs and watermelon and blowing stuff up.
It’s the First Friday of the month. Like a lot of cities, mine has an art walk every first Friday — gallery openings, street performances and the like. I make most months — sometimes in company, sometimes alone.
I started this one flying solo, but ended up — not so alone, let’s say.
I’m placing this in fall 2008, most likely — again, giving the timing of other events that preceded and followed it, to the best of my recollection.
It was later in the evening, and I was checking off the last few galleries on my list when we met. I was 45 at the time. She was about to turn 50, though I was surprised to learn that later on. Now that I’m in my 50s, I shouldn’t have been. She was just extremely youthful in her attitude and that made me peg her for my age or younger.
I was coming out of one gallery. She was coming in: dark hair, shoulder length, intriguing tinge of gray. She had knowing eyes and one of those bodies built for comfort: Curvy, soft — and as I’d discover later, extremely responsive.
We exchanged long glances and she shot me a mischievous smile. I turned around and went back into the gallery.
We did that wordless dance of checking each other out in a public place without trying to make it too obvious — making eye contact, smiling, looking away, looking back — never losing track of where the other person was in the space.
I went back out to the corner. She came up to me, still smiling, and said “Hi.” We introduced ourselves. She asked if I’d been to a nearby gallery yet. I said I hadn’t.
She took my arm: ‘Come on.”
I don’t remember who was showing that night. I do remember meeting the gallery owner, and a few other people, and finding the vibe relaxing but with a definite undercurrent of sexual energy. We sat on a couch in the middle of the gallery — which was also the gallery owner’s home and art studio — and listened to the band.
A few hours after that, with the gallery doors locked and the owner gone off to bed with a smile and a wink, we were back on that same couch. I was kissing her and unbuttoning her shirt, and she was pulling my shirt over my head. I unhooked her bra and my mouth found her nipples: Dark, hard, sensitive. She sighed and lay back on the couch. I unbuttoned her jeans, unzipped them, slid them — along with her panties — down and off.
“Gentle,” she said, a murmur mixed with a smile and a whisper. She drew in her breath and repeated the word when my tongue parted her lower lips. I let her direct the pace, my mouth and tongue soft and slow on her. She opened her thighs a bit more, cradled my head with her hand. Her hips began to move a bit more urgently, but I resisted the urge to speed up my own efforts.
“Come here,” she whispered. I somehow managed to kiss my way back up her body while simultaneously peeling off my own pants and boxers. Then, again: “Gentle.”
I found out later that she was studying sacred sexuality. I don’t know if I was her homework or just a fun bit of extracurricular activity. What I do know is that I was inside her for what seemed like forever — sometimes long slow strokes, sometimes not moving at all when she’d breathe “Wait, wait.”
Then her muscles stiffened. “Don’t move,” she said. “Just breathe. Just breathe.” I waited … and waited … and suddenly her pussy clamped down on me — hard. I let out a low moan.
“Wait,” she said. “Not yet. Be still.”
Then, she released her grip, tightened it, released, tightened …
“Now,” she said.
And I let go, harder than I had expected and longer than I would have thought possible. And all the time she was tightening, releasing, tightening, releasing. I drew in my breath to — moan, yell, something. I thought I’d explode if I couldn’t blow off some of the tension with a sound. And she pulled me down to kiss her again.
Some kind of stage two booster kicked in, and I found reserves of orgasmic capability that I hadn’t tapped before and have only rarely found since. A minute or so later, the last shocks faded away.
I wasn’t worn out. I was energized — awake, aware. the universe aligned in my head.
“You need to go,” she said with a smile. “We’ll talk later.”
And we did — over breakfast sometimes, over coffee. She would kiss me hello and goodbye, and call me “dear” and “love,” but that was it. We talked a lot about sacred sexuality, and the discipline it takes to achieve it. She wasn’t far into her study, but it was clear that her teacher’s lessons were taking.
I did ask if she’d teach me, but she said she had a lot more learning to do before teaching. We’d had a spark, yes; she’d seen something that resonated in that first glance. But anything ongoing sexually would be a distraction from her study. I was, as I’d thought I might be, a fun one-off — at least in that arena.
We lost touch a few years ago. It happens. No ill feeling; people just drift, and she was increasingly focused on her studies. I like to think of her still youthful, still open and loving, every day getting closer to her Nirvana — and every once in a while, showing some lucky person a glimpse into her own private Paradise.
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/c9heg9/her_gentle_arts_true_story_xpost_from
Oh wow, I loved this! :) Thank you for sharing!