Usher's newest album is pure sex. I'm listening to "That's what it's made for" and the brief spoken interlude that sounds like a clip from a porn script, complete with breathy intonations that I know so well, has gotten me turned on. I've been in rare form this week; every single night, I've found myself browsing this or that story on Literotica (yes, I've been there, rubbing one out desperately to some expertly painted scenario) with my left hand seemingly stuck between my legs and my right one on my breast, head thrown back as I moan out my orgasm, again ever so thankful that my roommate has gone away on vacation. Then I remember last Friday's hookup, and remember that there's a man that could be knocking on my door in 15 minutes should I choose to summon him. In my current state of arousal, the temptation is oh so very deliciously, delectably real.
I'd call his cel phone, of course, because the hour is late and I prefer to be a little discreet in my booty calls than waking up his whole family. "Hello, Tomas? This is Sabina. I was wondering if you'd like to come over for a little while?" And because he remembers last Friday, the two orgasms I stole out of him, my demonstrations of my unusual natural flexibility, and my ability to take a hot dog half-way down my throat... because he can detect that tone in my voice that promises naughty things, that he can't even imagine but he knows he'll enjoy; because of all this, he'll not only show up, but also be half-hard when he knocks on my door 15 minutes later. I'd answer the door clad in my low-slung sweatpants and tight green tank top, no bra, breasts outlined and nipples delineated with scientific clarity. A shy smile of mine, hiding a sinister intention. "Please, Come in."
Now, let's be clear: This would be the first time I take a fuck buddy, a booty call. Would I try to dissimulate with some small talk? "How was your day?" etc? Or would I grab him by the front of his shirt, pull him into the apartment, shut the door, and with both hands upon his chest push him against the closed door, reach up on the tips of my toes, and kiss him? Let's imagine that second scenario, and describe some of the merits of a good kiss. Fanatics will know a kiss can contain the full measure of a person's sensuality: that oblong muscle with its millions of little soft bumps slowly pushing itself into my mouth, about teeth working my lower lip, about slickness and saliva, the convergence of two passions.
At this point I'd probably hoist myself up on the low countertop/bar that separates my kitchen from my dining room, legs spread open with him standing between them, as his tongue continues his dutiful endeavor. I hook my legs around him, yes, we're both fully dressed and we're just kissing but already I can feel the moisture forming between my legs as I pull his mouth to my neck with one hand. If ever there was a sensitive spot on me, it's been my neck. My hands land on his stomach as he nuzzles my neck, I grab his shirt and pull up, it's discarded and I close my lips around the pebbles of his nipples, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to be interesting. His hands, perhaps, would be caressing my breasts through my shirt at this point. I don't really care, I'll get my fun later, for now I'm content to undo his belt and the button of his jeans, and then with a look full of intention, I sink to my knees before him and lower the zipper with my teeth.
I don't want to get to the main attraction too quickly. After all, part of my reputation depends on the originality and the prolongation of my erotic encounters. No, for now I'm content to remove his shoes and his trousers and just PRESS my hand firmly against his clothed erection as I lick along that line where taught abdomen meets boxer waistband. I rub a little, slide my hand along his thigh under the shorts and just brush his cockhead. I look up, and his eyes are closed, his jaw muscles tense, as I continue to move my hand up and down over his covered shaft.
