It’s a hot summer Saturday outside. Inside my head, I’m closing in on my 38th birthday and it’s an almost- spring Saturday night in 2001 in North Texas.
I was there on a work trip. It was my next to last night in town, and the next day promised to be a nonstop 12-hour grind, starting around 6 a.m.
And so, of course, I was in no mood to go to bed early — and there was Yahoo, and there was a willing younger playmate, and so at 11 p.m. I was walking her into my suite.
She was 23, petite, curvy with soft thick thighs (and a stylized black-ink tattoo of a bat on the right one). Streaky blonde hair, wavy, just short of shoulder length. Glasses — and oh, how I do love those, despite Dorothy Parker’s assertion that Men seldom make passes at girls who wear glasses.
She had warned me that she would be shy in person, that I’d have to take the lead. So I did, but slowly, letting her body language tell me when to take each next step.
We sat on the bed and kissed for a few minutes — kissed, nothing more, until she sighed and put her left hand on the back of my neck, parting her lips just so. Another five minutes, and my kisses began to migrate to her neck and her shoulder. Then came sliding her t-shirt over her head, my hand caressing her through her bra and then slipping inside. then it was on the floor, too, and my mouth was following where my hand had been.
By steps and stages — all marked by her soft breathing, her sudden tremblings when my mouth found a new curve and her sighs and soft moans as she yielded to each new exploration — we moved from sitting on the bed to lying down on it, me in only my boxers and her in only a pair of emerald-green satin panties — and her glasses, of course.
I kissed my way across the bat tattoo, wingtip to wingtip, then up the softer-than-satin skin of her inner thigh. I tugged her panties to the side, finding a soft patch of dark curls, and parted her lips with my tongue. I supposed I’d done a decent job of taking the lead, because she moaned again — louder, this time — and opened her thighs wider.
I took that as a sign to slide in a finger — and then another, only this one farther back so that she was entirely filled up as my tongue gently circled her clit. She didn’t even skip a beat when I slid in the second finger, except to gasp a quick “oh” when it moved past the tight little opening and into her.
Meanwhile, my left hand was still holding her panties out of the way. Spoiler alert: They never came off, and neither did the glasses, but they didn’t need to.
With both fingers moving in unison, in rhythm with what my mouth was doing to her, it wasn’t long until she went from the shy girl lying still while being ravished to the fully engaged woman whose hips were right there in sync with the action. I could feel her thighs shaking, needing just a bit of a boost to get over the top, so I slid my fingers in deep and sucked her clit into my mouth.
She clutched the bedspread, stifled a scream and came, shaking and gasping.
I kept sucking on her clit until she pushed my face away, but kept my fingers inside her while she lay there catching her breath. Then, a quick wash-up on my part later, she was the one pulling her panties to the side while I moved into her.
This time, there was no trembling. She sighed, smiled, lifted up to kiss me with two words: “Go slow.”
What followed seemed to take hours. In reality. it was probably closer to ten minutes — maybe eight, maybe a dozen. There was nothing sudden, no quick intake or outburst of breath. We kissed softly, deeply. I moved in her, and her hips rose to meet mine, in a steady beat that seemed better suited to old lovers than two people still in the infancy of meeting.
And when the climax came, it was a wave of release that slowly crested, broke with a quick shudder and a sting of fingernails on my shoulder blades, and ebbed into spent release.
We lay there, cuddled up together, for a few minutes as I stroked her hair. Then she looked me in the eyes, bit her lip and asked, “Would you do one more thing before I have to go?”
“What’s that?”
She smiled, lay back on the bed, pulled her panties to the side and stuck out her tongue. It was shy, it was knowing, it was incredibly erotic; what else could I do but bend my mouth to her, fill her with my fingers again, let my tongue run rampant on her once more until she let out a shaky, rising “OHHHH” and released one last time?
She kissed my mouth, still wet from her. “I have to go.”
I knew what that meant. Were she single, she’d have been able to stay. I didn’t ask for details. She dressed, kissed me again, slipped out the door and into memory.
They say it’s rare for people to dream in full color. If so, color me rare. Sometimes, I dream of streaky blonde hair, of black ink on fair soft skin, of emerald green satin caught in the curves of my fingers.
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/cct1e4/too_shy_shy_hush_hush_another_true_story_xpost