Making Love
She is a beautiful woman. I notice this every time I am with her. She is petite. Shorter, thinner than I am. Her hair color changes from time to time, but it is now pretty much her normal color which is a lighter brown, darker blonde. It falls to her shoulders, is thick enough to slide my fingers through, and is soft.
Sunday we had a light lunch and I spent time just looking at her face. The lines of her face are elegant, with higher cheek bones and full lips that brighten into a smile. She smiles easily, which means she is frequently even more beautiful. I watched her talk, watching the lips move, sometimes seeing her tongue inside, the whiteness of her teeth. Simply being across from her makes me feel good, being able to see her close up and watch her form words, moving those beautiful lips to form communication for me.
She and I sat at a small table in a cafe. The advantage of the small table is that you can touch hands. It’s become more and more of a tradition with us, when we are together someplace, for us to just reach out and place our fingers on the other’s hands. Not holding hands, but using fingertips to connect with the sensation of touch. Casually.
That touch makes me remember other touches, and want them again.
And so when we went to her place, that was what was on my mind. Touches. Touching, because she is so beautiful, because I like her so much, and she likes me. Touching becomes the physical connection that expresses our emotional state. Because of this, I worship her touch, because it means so much more.
At her place our first touch was just like at the cafe; our hands touched except this time our fingers interlaced and we held on to each other. Just one step closer, the sensation of skin on skin, the electricity of passion hinted at, the satisfaction of knowing the touch was common, shared, just as our minds were common.
My heart was beating a little faster. I remember this clearly, the sort of subdued nerves, not quite nervousness but more like anticipation. It was unspoken, but it was also clearly understood; the initial touch of our hands was not where the touching would stop. All that was needed was to arrive at a more comfortable place, a more relaxed position.
I couldn’t wait, though. The first kiss that day was standing in her kitchen, when she turned around and I didn’t move out of her way. Instead, I let her turn into me, facing me, and my arms went around her body. Because she is shorter than I my arms fit around her waist without having to raise them much, and it feels very relaxed when I encircle her. Her hands seemed to find a natural resting place as well… my hips.
When you are taller than the girl you are with there is a sort of inbred social expectation that you be the aggressor, that you initiate the contact. When I was with a taller girl I loved it because she was the instigator. She was the one to make the contact, guide us into the first steps of intimacy.
But she is shorter, and so as we stood in the kitchen she looked up at me and I leaned down to her, and just as I closed my eyes I saw her eyes close. Then it was all about the sensation of touch. The touch of our lips. She has such soft lips, and they open for me so freely. Then the kiss became about touch and taste, as I tasted her body, her mouth. She had just a tiny hint of coffee with some mint, I remember. Our tongues chased briefly as our arms moved around each other, bringing bodies close.
The embrace that comes with the kiss… it is secondary, and yet it makes the kiss so much more. Not just lips, but our bodies were joined, pressing. I could feel her outline, as she could feel mine. I could feel her presence, warmth, solidity.
When the kiss broke I sighed. She smiled and actually giggled a bit, perhaps recognizing my sigh as one of happiness or contentment, and she felt complemented by the non-verbal expression.
We didn’t make our way directly to the couch. I released her then, and she continued doing whatever it was that she was doing. Whatever it was it didn’t matter. It was just something that needed to be done.
When she finished, she joined me on the couch, and we talked briefly. We discussed how much time I had, when I would have to leave. Secret, unspoken in this conversation was the query, how long do we have? How far can we go? What expectations to set? Will this be a brief time of emotional intimacy, or should we let this continue on to become more physical? Is there time… to make love?
And we kissed again, this time a long, deep kiss. The kind that could go on forever. The kind were lips separated and began to roam to cheeks, necks, ears, and then back to lips. Teeth nipped at my lower lip. I giggled and I remember her tongue entering me and I pulled it in, sucking… suckling? Saliva was smearing, combined saliva, hers and mine merging and then appearing under her chin, at the crook of my neck, inside my ear… that gave me shivers.
What were my hands doing all this time? Roaming her back, her arms, slowly making their way to her head. Delving deep into her soft hair, mussing it, combing it, palms wide and pressing her head against me. No… not her head. Her lips. Her cheeks. Her face. Her nose.
I can kiss forever. Someone like her, I can be content simply kissing, nibbling, licking, holding. But there is more, especially if there is time, and of course I felt the heat of it in my body. I wanted more.
My hands were the first to slip underneath. I pulled her top out of her jeans; it had already slipped out partway, so it was not hard to pull and reveal the skin of her back. My hands went under her top, fingers spread wide and slid up her back. She was warm. Her flesh was warm, and smooth, and I could feel her muscles move and ripple as she kissed my neck and moved to the other side of my neck and kissed under my ear.
As my hands rose, they found her bra. An affront. Her breasts in bondage. An ugly strap containing and restraining her. I wanted to unhook it, but… it hooked in the front.
So… I pushed with my hands, straight up. Bunching and bundling her pull-over top to her shoulders. We broke our kiss and she raised her arms. I remember seeing her face and the smile she had. I don’t remember but I suspect her smile brought a smile to my face. Her hair was pulled up as the top went over her head, and then collapsed back down, slightly ruffled but still beautiful. The light brown on her light skin was beautiful. I always marvel at the perfection of her body whenever it is revealed. Smooth light skin, perfect curves, touchable in every way.
I wouldn’t let her come in for a kiss. Instead I put my hands on her stomach, slid them up to her breasts and undid the clasp of her bra. It fell forward and her breasts fell forward, soft and white and begging for me to touch them. So I did. Both hands, both breasts, and then I slid my hands off her breasts to her shoulders, taking her bra with them.
She said something; I don’t think I know what it was, but I suspect it was something to the effect that it wasn’t fair that she was topless and I was not. She moved in, unbuttoning the front of my top. I lay calmly and patiently on my back as she slowly revealed my bare flesh. I was not wearing a bra. I don’t actually need to, and at times like this it is particularly fun to go bare.
When my shirt was off she immediately delved down and began kissing. First my left, then my right. Circling, licking, and kissing. I love this part… it makes me feel so desirable, it makes me feel like my breasts are wonderful because she is there, the smell of her hair filling my nose, the feel of her hair sliding over my shoulders, the wetness of her tongue slowly getting closer, closer, and then finally encircling my nipple.
I remember her moans, her little gasps, her cries, but I don’t remember my own. I know I make noise when I make love. I am pretty sure I arched my back a little and moaned when she first suckled my nipple. I know I lifted my legs up, still sheathed in jeans, and wrapped them around her legs.
There are times when I don’t know what I want more. What part of me begs to be touched more. How my body wants to be stimulated. I know that right then I wanted to feel her against me again, and I pulled her up to kiss once again, this time with her bare breasts pressing against mine.
Pressing breasts together isn’t some magical sexual stimulation. At least, not physically. But with her, the feeling of her softness, the softest part of her body pressing against my own softness, is a mental high. I love it. My arms wrapped her and pressed her tightly to me, and we slid together as we kissed more.
Her hand reached between my legs, pressing up against my crotch, pressing through the denim. Was I wet enough to have soaked through even that material? I felt like it, though I doubt it. I felt like she must be feeling my moistness even through the jeans. I don’t think she did. But I do think she felt the warmth, the heat.
Our legs intertwined as we kissed, thighs pressing up between each other’s legs. Pressing up. We rocked, almost unconsciously, making our thighs press up and slide slightly against each other’s pussy. Dry humping, I suppose. Such a callous term, and not entirely accurate because we were both soaking wet.
Finally, we could stand it no longer. We were both sexually aroused to the point of frustration. I reached down, unbutton her jeans. I pushed, and they slid over the curve of her ass, the perfect curve, the perfect ass, the smooth skin. It took a little struggling and cooperation, but her panties descended with her pants and were on the floor in moments.
Next came mine. I didn’t want them off, I needed them off. She helped, but I removed them. Kicked them up high into the air with my left foot and they landed symbolically on top of her own, a few feet away.
The first sensation I had was when our bare legs slid together. We were both shaved, smooth, and that is the best feeling in the world. To intertwine with another woman’s smooth legs. I love it. It is soooo sensual.
The second sensation I remember was the softness of the folds over her pussy as my hand slid down and touched, followed by the wetness. I did not enter her, but simply slid over her flesh, feeling the wet slippery folds of flesh, knowing exactly where her clit was, running fingers along so that her clit was between two of them. She gasped.
It is heaven when she gasps. To know I have done that to her, to have had that effect. To make her gasp.
It was her turn to make me gasp, as her hand reached down and touched me. I spread my legs, again, wrapping them around her thighs lazily as she slid her delicate fingers across me. She didn’t enter either, but she didn’t have to. I felt ready, the arousal of our intimacy almost at a climax, close so that she could bring me there quickly if she wanted to. This happens to me when I am with someone I truly care about; the build up, the desire, the connection, it all gets me wet before the first kiss is over, and ready to orgasm as soon as the first direct touch comes about.
She took the lead this time, sliding down my body from my breasts, stopping in places where there were curves. My ribs. My belly button. My hips. And finally, her tongue rested on my pussy. I closed my eyes because her tongue made me want to cum right then, but she said something. I looked down, she repeated. “You taste… so good.”
I flushed, grinned, felt a sudden flash of warmth and as her tongue slid over my clit in a rhythm, my hips lifted, I put one hand behind her head, moaned (I remember moaning that time), and the warmth flooded me. It lasted a while. A long time. She kept going, kept her tongue moving in exactly the right way, direct stimulation. My clit had gone very slightly numb as she rubbed it with her tongue and my orgasm flooded, so I urged her to push harder. I shuddered, I panted. Then I collapsed, feeling her lips gathering my own pussy lips and suckling on them.
Only then did her tongue flicker in and out of my vagina.
That brought another climax, or … perhaps a brief extension to the waning orgasm I had just felt.
I felt a release, a calming release at that point as she slid back up my body with a huge grin on her face. Her mouth was covered with my own moistness, and when we kissed I could taste myself. When that happens I can’t think of anything more erotic. Tasting myself on another girl’s lips and tongue.
It was her turn, though, and I put my arms around her and struggled to push her underneath. She giggled, helped and I smiled, feeling her body shift under mine.
Descending her body took longer. I think it drove her insane, the way she kept wriggling and wiggling underneath me as I stopped at her breasts, suckled her nipples, spent time under her arms and on her sides while reaching my hand around her ass and finding my way to her vagina from behind. My fingers had slid inside her as I reached her stomach and she was bucking her hips, trying to urge me on. Faster. Harder. I refused. I went at my own pace, and as I got close to her pussy I pressed one finger onto the outside of her anus.
It’s one of those very private things that people don’t admit except to someone they give their bodies to. It doesn’t turn me off. It turns me on that she has given herself to me, given her body to me to do anything with, and with that she’s passed along special knowledge of perverted little things that make her excited. An extra sensation, a little press against her anus… not deep but perhaps just a quarter inch of penetration. She goes wild.
I finally reached her pussy and tasted her. My tongue delved deep, slid over her pussy and down inside. I love using my entire mouth, my entire face to stimulate my partner. My tongue went inside her, my lips sucked her pussy lips, my nose rubbed her clit. I came back out, slid back up, on hand on each of her buttocks, spreading them wide as I slid my tongue over her clit.
Looking up over her stomach I saw her breasts, her face, flushed and ready. Her eyes were closed, her mouth slightly open as she panted and made small noises.
Lifting her hips up with my hands, bringing her pussy into my face I renewed my efforts, pushing harder, sliding and sucking in a rhythm. Her own hands reached down and guided me, pushed me and slid me, and I allowed myself to be her instrument.
Her own orgasm wasn’t loud and struggling like mine, it was marked mostly by the tensing of her muscles and the flush that appeared on her chest and face. It happens every time. Feeling her reach a climax almost made me climax myself. Almost.
She collapsed after, reaching down and asking me to cuddle her.
We were still on the couch. A narrow space, limiting our positions and comfort, but somehow we had forgotten it completely. We had made love, shared physical intimacy, felt each other and allowed each other to penetrate and stimulate the most private areas of each other’s bodies and had lost all thought or reason to anything else in the world while we did.
We lay together, the full length of our bodies touching. We kissed lightly, every once in a while. Our hands roamed very slightly, touching or stroking a convenient spot on the other.
Finally, she looked at me and said, “Let’s go to the bedroom.”
I rolled my eyes, and kissed her quickly. Then I stood and helped her up. Hand in hand, we walked into her bedroom, leaving our clothes strewn on the floor of the living room.
