Sarah 15

I saw her everywhere. The little space at the base of her chin, where face becomes neck, the soft curve of her skin glowing in the gentle moonlight of a quiet evening. Maybe someone would have her eyes, that same distinct brown like the golden amber of a well aged liquor. There were pieces of her in ever face that I looked upon, she was in my world completely, and yet absent from it as well.

Love at first sight had always seemed so cliché, just one of those things that you read about or saw in movies. Lust at first sight, now there was a reality. Men have always been creatures of habit and desire, driven by baser needs that reached out of them from a much more primal place. A man sees a woman, notices the shape of her body, the rise and fall of her breasts with each breath that she takes, and it takes no more than this for him to want her. To lust for her. There is no secret behind it, only science. She has the physical attributes that appeal to him and as such it takes only a look to experience that desire that is often times confused for a more complex emotion.

And I have to be honest, here, and say that when I first saw her there was such an overpowering feeling of love that I mistook it for lust, which is contrary to my normal male nature. There was something powerful about it, something that shifted inside me in a way that I'd never experienced before, as if there was suddenly this magnetic force between us that was pulling me in her direction. It was natural and pure, two beings that had been kept apart until then, finally brought together through a series of random moments, and cursed with a love so magnificent it could not be ignored.

There were so many things about her to notice. She was a woman in all the ways that most women strive to be, the curves of her voluptuous and full to the point of seeming almost unreal. She had a body that took clothes that would look ordinary on any other woman and made them undeniably sexy, the nominal dip in her blouse still showing enough of her silken bosom to draw the eyes of anyone who glanced at her. Her legs stuck out from beneath a skirt dangerously close to being short, but still humble enough to seem appropriate, her skin creamy and white, but in a way that did not seem to lack color, as if a tan would only ruin the purity of how long and perfectly shaped they were. It took me a moment though to get to all of that, because before I could ever notice that Marilyn Monroe like physique I had to make it past her eyes, and that in itself was nearly impossible.

She looked at me over the rim of a wine glass, and our eyes met, if two world colliding into one another can be considered meeting, and she smiled. It was hard to tell if she was smiling with me, or at me, because for reasons that to this day I cannot explain just gazing into her eyes brought a near idiotic grin to my face. It would have made sense for her to be amused with me, but for her to be sharing that moment, to be experiencing the same level of strange emotion, excitement mixed with fear and passion. But she didn't look away from me, she didn't even blink, and for some reason I just knew, then and there, that I was completely and irrevocably in love with this woman. It was not lust, it was pure and unashamed love.

Those eyes, like two sunflowers of twinkling mischief and desire, there was simply no finding your way back once lost in eyes like those. She crossed the room to me, not waiting for the customary moment of having a man approach her first. Clinking her wine glass against my own and taking a slow sip, never looking away.

We sat down and our stories became one, all of her secrets and experiences seemingly my own. Her stories could have included me, my arms wrapped around her waist and her head laid back against my shoulder at every family picnic and beachside bonfire. It was strange, meeting someone totally new that immediately felt so completely familiar.

It was a wine tasting at a public park, hosted by the same business association to which we both had connections and as such could not immediately flee from so that we could escape to a more personal venue. The evening ended with an old Fred Astaire movie, him dancing across the black and white screen wearing his trade mark tuxedo. I want to say something clever about hot men used to dress with such style, but instead I just wrest my hand against the small of her back, her shirt has pulled up just enough for me to feel the warm skin there. My fingers trace small circles around the base of her spine, brushing against the place where her skirt ends.

She turns towards me and I expect to see a look of disapproving shock on her face, but before I can even feel guilty for letting my hand stray so farm south she nuzzles herself up against my neck and takes my ear gently between her teeth. Warm moist breath caresses my face like fingers and goose bumps jump out across my skin. I mutter something, something that should be words, but instead just comes out like a stuttering sigh of pleasure. She smiles up at me, and I smile back down at her, and her laughter dances along like the notes of the music.

And when she leaves me that evening I can still hear it in the sound of my stereo, the music of her laughter drifting in and out until the actual song becomes lost in it. She promises me that she will be back.

She has to visit her mother for a couple of days and she will return, and we will pick things up where we left off. There is something about delayed gratification that can drive a man crazy. Along with those more primal desires comes the need for instant satisfaction. For forty eight hours she is there, in every woman's face, in every perfectly sculpted curve, even the sound of her in every song I hear sung. When I close my eyes she is there.

It's not the desire for sex that drives me, it's the idea that when our bodies come together there will be this kind of magical connection of my energy to her own. I don't think I've ever had sex with a woman who I loved first, or if I have ever even truly loved a woman for that matter. This borderline obsession that I am experiencing now has to be the real thing, and considering that it is clear to me that everything I have experienced up to this point was only a mild version of the true thing.

I light candles, open champagne, I even hand dip strawberries in chocolate and lay them out in a straight line on a small crystal dish. I do all of the things that I expect a woman would anticipate a man doing for her to get her in the mood for sex. And when her headlights appear outside the front of my home just after midnight I have an instant surge of terror. What if she has changed her mind, what if this all seems like some pretentious attempt at getting her to have sex with me. Maybe she will walk in, see the candles and turn around, hoping that the insane stalker who assumed she was going to put out after only a couple of hours together will forget that they ever met.

There is no knock at the door, it just opens, and she walks inside without asking for permission. She drops her purse on the floor, and her hands disappear behind her, reappearing with a thin strap, which she gives a gentle pull. Her body opens to me like an unwrapped gift from the gods, the dress falling softly to the floor at her feet. What I had known was an ample bosom takes my breath away once exposed, her breasts settling quickly into place with a single sexual jiggle. She wears nothing but a pair of thin shorts, the hourglass shape of her rising and falling with each step she takes as she turns and moves down the hallway towards my bedroom. She does not need me to tell her where it is, she simply drags fingers along the wall as she disappears into the shadowy orange glow of the candles flickering behind the doorway.

I have no nervousness or apprehension, no worries about what is to come or how our bodies will find each other for their first meeting. I step up behind her and she turns into my arms, her hands deftly unbuckling and slipping out my belt, tossing it aside so that she can slide my shirt over my head. Once naked there is none of the standard shame that most people feel the first time a stranger sees them in all of their nude glory. Her hands explore me, fingertips drifting along my belly button and down to my thighs, there is no waiting for me to become rigid with anticipation, but as she drifts dangerously close to me she pulls away and lies back on my bed. This woman, this creature of absolute brilliance and gorgeous magnificence, is lying on my bed, looking up at me, beckoning me to her. My skin meets her skin, and we are one person. Her breasts fit in my hands as if they were made for me, and she seems to be unbothered by my less than bashful approach. Fingers wrap themselves into my hair and ease me downward, the feel of her skin against my face is heaven. There is no longer a need for her to guide me, I slide my tongue along her body and kiss the inside of her thighs, biting the soft flesh that I find there. I taste her for the first time, she tastes like strawberries and pears. It's impossible, I know it is, I've gone down on enough women to understand the biology of what is taking place there and have a healthy respect for those ladies who keep themselves extra clean. But I read once somewhere that when two people are matched for one another genetically, that things like the scent and saliva of the partners become appealing. I have no doubts, she was made for me, and I savor in the deliciousness of her.

She begins to writhe with the feel of it, her toes curling and straightening as her legs wrap around my face. A kind of slow tremor begins to run through her body, she both pushes and pulls on me, as if she can't decide whether the feeling of an orgasm slowly coming to life inside her is ecstasy or agony. No words are spoken, she simply drags me up across the wetness of her body and kisses me, unafraid of tasting herself there, her tongue plunging inside my mouth and wrestling with my own. She turns me onto my back, and there is no need for assistance as she slides me inside her, inching her way down over every inch of me, her back arching with pleasure as her body begins to slowly rise and fall atop my own. The moment seems to stretch on for an eternity, it could be hours, it could be minutes, but the sight of her bouncing on top of me lit by the orange of the candles like some kind of a sexual Goddess is more than I can take. Sensing the impending eruption of my passion she slides off of me and takes me inside her mouth without hesitation. Her fingers slide up and down with a delicate sense of understanding, her lips wrapped around me, her tongue making small circles just slow enough to keep me from exploding. Seemingly forever, she keeps me there, on the brink of a finish beyond anything I have ever experienced.

I let go.

Her mouth works greedily as I release everything that I have been holding back, my own body racked with tremors of it's own. I've had great orgasms before, but this spreads from just my groin and throughout every cell of my body, until I fall back on the bed and she crawls atop me, lying her head against my chest and finding peace there. She looks up at me, and I down at her, and though I had not believed it possible, the passion of her gaze overpowers all that had come before it.

We are there, together, there in that moment, and I know that whatever may happen after that, my soul will always belong to her.