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Sex Story

"Because of the fragrance of your good ointments, your name is ointment poured forth"--Song of Solomon 1.3

As the late-morning sun seeped through the curtains and onto my body in a soft splash, I awoke breathing in vanilla. Like an opiate, the heavy fragrance lured me into a haze so potent I saw myself rising to bathe in the mists of the wispy summer clouds. Seemingly on that cue, a liquid spilled like warm syrup onto my skin, painting a slow, winding path across my spine.

I tensed slightly when a pair of hands followed to cradle the small of my back, but quickly softened when I realized their objective. Never dreaming of revealing my awareness, I nestled my head on my arms and stretched out over the feathery, slate-blue sheets, moaning a sleep-like, anticipating moan.

Under the glaze of oil, his hands were warm, polished stones kneading me into a suppleness like candle wax over flames. I released a dissolving sigh as I felt my skin all but liquefy from my bones, it grew so slack and warm.

Once they had lulled my neck and shoulders into a drowse, the splayed hands moved downward and across in deliberate circles. They nudged deeply and with precision, seeming to shape me into sculpture for some purer intent.

I could melt under this, I thought, feeling my breath and body plunge into the languid, sloshing depths.

An unintentional "oh" slipped through my lips as my body stirred with incipient arousal: pulsing where it had been worked, simmering where it had yet to be touched. And I was caught in a mix of lethargy and desire, drifting like a dandelion seedling in a breeze. My eyelids dragged like chained prisoners, while my nipples teemed and hardened. As I strayed into one sensation, the other tugged at me, coaxed lightning into my nerve-endings or seduced the sandman in to steal my consciousness.

I had expected to see him all but comatose after last night, when I couldn't touch him enough to satisfy my hunger, or wait to have him inside me, groaning against my neck. Many months had passed since we'd been so frenzied for each other, as if time were collapsing into extinction. The reason being, and setting aside romance for a second, we had forgotten the passion loving couples are to feel supposedly until death: It was a slice at the heart to realize that we actually had broken our vow to never take each other for granted--I'd have never guessed I'd grow used to the topaz in his eyes.

On the nightstand, the Pinot Noir bottle stood a near-empty, emerald remnant, glinting in the dreamy morning. As his fingers continued to urge me into somnolent rapture, I closed my eyes. When the blaze of our initial fervor had calmed to embers, we could finally smell the blood-berry sweetness of the wine and taste its tartness, which softened as I kissed him, licked his lips, and nursed his tongue.

His hair had been satin between my fingers and as pungent and sweet-smelling as sage. As my nose buried itself in the charcoal mass, I combed through it, massaged and not-so-gently tugged, provoking approving growls, which rumbled against my chest. He, in turn, had unbuttoned my blouse and kissed the tops of my breasts, leaving cool, wet prints on the heated mounds. I had bitten my lip when he rolled my nipples between his fingers and ran his moist lips and breath over my collarbone to my throat.

Suddenly Mr. Smith's breath flushed my neck. "Naomi, you awake, babe? Love touching you like this," he said, tracing elongated ovals over my thighs, "and feeling your sweet skin in my hands. So nice." He kissed my cheek and I lifted myself closer to his freshly showered body.

"This feels so good," I cooed, guiding his hand further up my leg. "I'm going to want you very soon."

Mr. Smith chuckled, "Mimi, I wanted you when I woke, but now I want to touch you."

With my compliant sigh, he pressed his fingers into my shoulder blades then dragged them meanderingly across me like a traveler out for the scenery. His hands encompassed the expanse of my back, and I felt as though I were floating in a nebulous world of candlelight. Several times I tried to call up something like deep breathing to savor this heaven, like an orgasm, but each time his fingers played over me, my head swam and I lapsed again to panting.

I drifted away under the soothing circulation of blood, and the tension melted like butter over warm bread. However, I didn't relax completely: I puzzled over the existence of the tension, and its cause.

We had shared a perfect night together: For hours in the steamy kitchen full of the scents of chopped garlic, thyme, rosemary, and basil, budding careers and new financial obligations had vanished. I'd never felt closer to him, nor he to me, as nothing had mattered but our being together, creating the perfect blend of food and spices.

Yet now the thought stung me, nagged at my well-being. Mr. Smith and I had neglected intimacy, the sharing of affection for so long, perhaps I had begun to wonder if we could lose each other for good. Although short-term, it had been so easy to do before.

His hands are his best physical attributes, if I appeal to both form and function. They were large and deeply veined like a body-builder's hands and were capped with elegant fingers like those of a pianist. The incongruity created the harmony: Mr. Smith's hands were powerful enough to crush me against the wall during a bruising fuck, yet restrained enough to stir me to orgasm with the stroll of a fingertip.

At the table, I'd found myself staring as he uncorked the wine, wrapping his fingers around the bottle like spider legs clutching bundled prey, while nimbly drilling the screw into the firm, yet pliant cork. I never once blinked while he plied the cylindrical seal's core, descending steadily, reinforcing his grip deep inside.

I was gaping by the time he reached the end where he tightened his hold and then with deliberate ease, as if pulling a splinter from a wound, withdrew the cork. In nearly as fluid a motion, I rose, placed the corkscrew on the table, and drew his fingers, one at a time, into my mouth. I kissed them to the tips with comparable deliberation. I tasted, while looking into his eyes, which reflected the glowing candles, the garlic and heady spices of our meal and moaned as though I were sampling gourmet appetizers. He kissed me then and that was the most we'd had of dinner.

Sun rays brightened the room and the vanilla oil perfumed the air as it rose with my body heat and wafted from Mr. Smith's talented hands. Now, it wasn't just his touch, but the thought of his eyes roving my body that made me shiver.

A smirk teased my lips each time he exhaled through his mouth, as I imagined it was due to the affect of my nakedness on him. In the beginning, the firm roundness of my ass had ensnared him. I turned to watch him. He was kneeling at my side, hair slightly damp and smoothed back though renegade locks swung at his temples as he played a most effective masseur.

His dark eyebrows knit and mouth firmly set, he was focused on my body, treating each curve of flesh to the perfect mixture of cruelty and softness. Determinedly and with deep, steady breaths, he rubbed in the aromatic liquid, loosening my muscles, while his flexed and worked, catering to my body's every craving. I reached out my hand to slide it up the pillar of his naked thigh.

"Now, now, Madam," Mr. Smith chided when I wrapped my fingers around his swollen member. "Let me enjoy this for as long as possible."

"Judging by this," I said, squeezing his shaft, "that won't be very much longer."

"We'll see," he murmured.

The touch of him ignited me. I became yielding and wanton as flames coursed through my limbs and churned the juices between my thighs. I slid my hand down my belly to cup my heated pussy. It throbbed like a heart. As I clasped my softly furred lips, the creamy liquid oozed out over my fingers.

The searing heat raced through me as palpably as the blood coursing through his cock. Accordingly, Mr. Smith trailed his hands down my sides to firmly squeeze my breasts. I sighed tremulously and arched, anxiously waiting for his fingers to curl under me. He leaned down and pressed his lips into the hollow of my spine instead, and I shivered against the bite of his stubble.

With a startled intake of breath, I felt his kisses continue downward, tracing a path toward the slope of my ass. It was strange that I should be surprised, considering the natural sensuality of his touch. I was tangled with hesitation, still, as if it were possible that he wanted nothing more than to massage me, as if my pressing for more would repel him. Consequently, the more intimate his hands became, the further the tension permeated the pleasure, like a subtle poison. It was as though he had become a stranger, some common massage therapist paid to soothe me then move on to the next client.

Nonetheless, I couldn't deny how good this felt, this familiar, though long-neglected, caress. The sinuous movement of his hands thrilled me. Each knead and stroke was an awakening, as though he'd never touched me before. Fogged with disbelief, I would sometimes reach back for his hands, just to touch, to feel them as they worked me. I murmured holding my breath and undulated my hips with smoldering exhilaration. Everything but feeling and desire disintegrated.

Mr. Smith moaned and brushed his lips across my skin. "You smell like spice and honey," he whispered, taking my hips into his hands. I could feel him trembling against me. I felt him wanting me with every wet kiss over my ass. I squirmed, suddenly growing restless in the midst of his caresses. Before I realized it, my thighs were slippery and hot.

"Please," I whispered into the pillow.

"Oh, Mimi," Mr. Smith sighed, stroking me. "Let me touch you a bit longer, yeah? Doesn't this feel good?" His hands feverishly squeezed as he tried to catch up to the point through which I was already speeding.

"No, please," I begged, beginning to rise. "I need you. I need you inside me."

"Mimi," he whispered, planting a final kiss. I groaned resolutely and he lifted me to my hands and knees with a sigh and shuffled into place behind me.

"Yes, fuck me. Fuck me." I growled, parting my slick pussy lips. Oil-glossed, my anguished body quaked, being so inflamed that even my fingertips flushed as he positioned me.

Like an abstract painting, the image of Mr. Smith taking me splashed into my head: As I felt him, I saw him pulling my hips, pushing them as I shifted docilely at his wordless commands. I saw his chest heave as his eyes fed on the sight of my spread lips, which pulsed with the rush of blood and heat. When he removed a hand, I imagined it gripping his cock, aiming as he primed it to complete hardness. On my unsteady limbs, panting and rocking, I envisioned his pomegranate-colored cock tip as it splattered its clear liquid onto the bed.

When Mr. Smith pushed his cock between my labia, I was breathless and still as stone, alive with only the anticipation of him entering me, filling me with his hard, throbbing length.

Yet to my astonishment, Mr. Smith began to stroke only the insides of my pussy lips with the tip of his cock. My heart thumped against my chest as my cunt clutched and throbbed as if trying to drag him in. Unfazed, Mr. Smith continued teasing my opening and ignoring my jutting clit as he glazed his cock head, penetrating just enough to open me to him.

He did this over and over, maddening me as I groaned and struggled to push back against him, to pull him inside me. Nevertheless, he held me firmly, kept me still. Despite this, I knew he wanted me as much I wanted him. I felt the strain in his body and the longing in his rigid cock. With each aggravating prod, more pre-cum oozed to blend with my own juices, which streamed like rivers down my thighs.

I sobbed as I staggered on the edge of coming. My body was a heap of screaming nerves, begging to be stroked, grabbed, slapped--something, everything. Through the crying, I shook, ready to kill my desire with even those vexing nudges. Still, I couldn't imagine needing anything more than to be filled: Mr. Smith's cock had become the fulfillment of that need like a feast after a century of starvation.

As he prodded, I squeezed my slick cunt against his knob, straining to gather just enough stimulation to bring on my orgasm. However, he caught me in my scheme and pulled his cock from my lips to slide it along the crack of my ass.

"Mr. Smith," I sputtered, dropping my head in defeat.

"Say 'please,'" he hissed through his teeth.

I obeyed and the force and swiftness of his thrust tore a gasp from my throat.

Like the keystone of an arch, Mr. Smith's cock kept me from collapsing into the emptiness of introverted, manic pleasure. Yet, if I hadn't held my breath and prayed, I would have come the second he slammed into me. I was a fist fiendishly clutching Mr. Smith's thick, smooth column. He had taken me brusquely and I was filled to the brim and elated.

For a moment, he held stock-still inside me, saturating his cock in the depths of my pussy. His grip on my hips hardened as he moaned, feeling me tighten around him.

"You're making it so hard to wait," Mr. Smith said breathlessly as he bent forward, nearly leaning on me.

I had no words for how good he felt stretching my walls with his iron shaft, but I shuddered against him, a short-circuiting toy skittering without direction. I savored each inch of his cock as if at any moment he'd wrench it from me.

At first, Mr. Smith fucked me slowly, gradually lifting me to the height of physical pleasure. And at first, I took this with an ascetic's restraint. I focused on maintaining his measured rhythm, which was so like the slow-motion swinging of a pendulum. I tried not to think about how pleasurably and easily his cock slid over my drenched, grasping walls.

However, at the prompting of my irrepressible pleas and writhing, he quickened his rhythm. Before long, the glistening globes of my ass resounded with Mr. Smith's thrusts as he rapidly smacked against them. He pounded harder and faster, driving deeper, trenching his fingers in my flesh as he demolished the dam of pent-up lust.

I threw my head back and groaned a long, guttural "oh" at the excruciating pleasure. My arms and legs wobbled as it drained my strength. I lost both the process and the control of thought against the onslaught, and merely held on as Mr. Smith pumped in and out of my juicy folds, stimulating every nerve.

All too soon our moans in concert with the wet, sloppy friction grew overwhelmingly hot and I was ready to explode. My quickening whimpers tell him that I'm coming, and he groaned and chanted my name as his cock swelled inside me.

An ache suddenly pierced my insides, causing me to tumble down onto my back, dragging him down onto me and back into me. I kissed him deeply, sucking his tongue, his lips, his chin--everything I could capture. I wrapped my legs around him and pulled him to me tightly, as if to swallow him. I kissed Mr. Smith until I was breathless, until my mouth drooped, blushed and sore.

I clung to him as lichen to stone fountains, and held him inside me, motionless. As the ache burned, my vision blurred as I looked up into his eyes. Afraid and so near the edge that I was dizzy, I whimpered, fearing the fall, almost wishing death on the ending. What if we have no more and we lose each other again? If we make this passion last, if I hold him inside me like this, grasping, could we keep it forever, fall forever?

What had been an invisible fissure was now the evident crack in our foundation. Denial was not an option. Mr. Smith's expression darkened as he nodded solemnly, acknowledging this vulnerability which now seemed to gape like a chasm. Confusion met uncertainty as we sought the answers in each other's eyes.

Though time seemingly slept, minutes passed. Several times we tried to speak, but words failed us. I felt lost, trapped as though I were in a maze of endless, unanswerable questions. My heart pounded. His eyebrows furrowed. I didn't know what I wanted to find in his eyes--whether love, reassurance, or some vague declaration--but I knew I wanted to feel whole and at ease again in his presence.

I closed my eyes and breathed long, deep breaths, attempting to calm the apprehension that had rattled me to my core. As I breathed, slowly filling and emptying my lungs, an enveloping, creamy wave flowed warmly through my body. The ache dissolved little by little. Although his arms quivered, Mr. Smith had remained solid above and inside me. Warm pools swelled beneath my eyelids then broke through my lashes. I opened my eyes to meet his misted, jeweled gaze, which glowed like a clouded dawn.

Through the haze and as his cock twitched inside me, certainty emerged like a beacon in the depths of his eyes. I was doused in a baptismal heat that was soft and soothingly lush. I melted against him as easily as snow in the palm of a hand. As he smiled and waited patiently above me, I realized that we had more beginnings and endings on the horizon.

We said "I love you" as if our lives were wrapped in those words and he smothered me with a kiss and plunged into me. I came in crushing waves as the world spun fuzzily, flashing in bright colors around me. With my limbs locked around him, I shuddered breathlessly against his muscled length. My consciousness wavered, yet, somewhere inside, I felt him moving inside me, fucking me still.

Finally, the sensation ebbed just enough that I cried out in a final orgasm and collapsed beneath him, calling out his name. Mr. Smith came deep inside me and then fell, panting.

*****

Sheets of rain began to fall in a continuous, soft hum, bringing smoky clouds, which dimmed the rising sunlight. In the midst of the downpour, as I cradled Mr. Smith's head between my breasts, I curled his hair over my fingers, enjoying the weight of his body and the soft sibilance of his breathing. His right arm lay draped over my waist and his fingers trailed my hip. The scent of the oil had vanished in the wash of sex and sweat, and we found our breathing in the long moments, which passed like the melting of candles. Our hearts thudded softly against one another and soon mimicked the other's pace.