The Art of Sex

Chapter 2 -- The Lingering Bouquet

Still in the darkness of Pepe Le Moko, I lean over and kiss you softly on the lips. Lovingly. You smell fantastic. Your perfume has lily of the valley top notes with a hint of citrus. But as I breathe you in, I notice a spicy, woodsy base note. Exactly the scent I prefer! I imagine rather romantically, that's how you smell everywhere -- pleasantly woodsy with a musky hint.

The waiter's sudden interruption to ask if we would like a dessert is not the best way to extend the mood. We laugh at the irony of the offering -- fig en croûte. I pay and we leave.

On the way out of, I couldn't help myself. I admit it... I surreptitiously smell my fingertips to see if your scent is on them after my indiscretion up your dress. I'm pleased to discover it is. Albeit very slightly.

As I open the door for you, I softy touch the small of your back as you pass, and then secretly smell my fingers. I know finger sniffing is gauche, but I want to establish a permanent memory of you. Scent is, after all, our clearest memory. I secretly savor the bouquet of your pussy just as I would enjoy the scent of a fine wine. And like wine, your bouquet is unique to you and I will remember it between meetings.

As we wait for the valet to return with my car, I think of what it will be like to bury my face in your various crevasses and inhale deeply... The nape of your neck... Your cleavage... And yes, most especially... down there. Your pheromones will instantly fuel me with passion.

I open your door. I touch your back again softly and I shut the door behind you and once again think of your scent. It is now etched on my mind. It makes me want to ravage you in the car. But I decide even if you would allow it, our first encounter should be more luxurious. I do not like public displays of overt affection, unless done clandestinely.

We drive. My hand now again innocently resting on your leg. You squirm slightly. I get the distinct impression you want me to place that hand up your skirt again but I would not comply even if you do. Driving makes that impossible, and I want you to squirm. Knowing you want me to feel you is more delicious than doing so.

We come to a signal and stop, with another car behind us. While waiting for the light to change I turn and kiss you again. Now with tongue for the first time.

As we kiss, my hand runs up your torso and across your breasts. It most obviously cups your right breast in passing but does not linger. It moves softly to your neck, then cheek and into your blonde hair. We continued to kiss. The light changes. The spell is broken.

The whole car now is full of the wonderfully musky animal scent that is us. Which way to turn? Where to go next? I ache to explore you more fully. I wanted to discover if you are as wet as I hope.

I say, "I know this is a bit presumptuous of me, but we clearly have a connection. And we are having fun. I would regret this forever if I did not say it... I know this date was only "a cocktail and a chat" but I booked a room just in case. So, will you be coming up for least for one more drink?"

You reply without pause. "I have time for one drink -- but promise nothing more."

I am disappointed, but I know you may not be saying what you will do. I realize that even if you want to fuck me you might say this. The seduction must continue in the room before you might say, "Yes!"

Standing at the door fumbling with my key card I find myself wondering how we got there. Enveloped in a warm haze of lust, it's as if we were magically transported from car to room. How did that happen?

As soon as I have closed the door, we embrace. I kiss you passionately. I kick off my shoes, before you haven't even dropped your bag. You clutch it as we hug, like a safety blanket. I stop kissing you and begin to nuzzle your neck with my face much as a big friendly dog might do. I love doing this to a woman.

As you will discover, one of my favorite lovemaking "habits" is to nuzzle your neck in this way while I am inside of you. When I make love, I like to alternate between giving oral and very slow vaginal sex. I will switch between the two, several times as we get started. This process is sort of a second step in "foreplay" for me. It extends lovemaking for a long time before getting into a sex rhythm that finishes with harder more aggressive sex that leads to orgasms.

When I do this neck nuzzling, I purposely "mark" both sides of your neck just as a cat does along a wall or on a chair leg. I mark you with your own bouquet, acquired by nuzzling you "down there". I then rub my wet face on the sides of your throat and under your ears. I naturally also enjoy kissing your neck, biting your earlobes, and running my tongue under your jawline as I do this. But, in fact, I have another more selfish motive for marking you with your own scent.

You see, I'm planning ahead for my future orgasm while I plant your bouquet on you. When I do choose to cum, whether that is face-to-face or from behind, your scent is directly under my nose. When I reach climax, I like to bury my face in your neck and inhale the scent of your pussy as I cum. Your own juices, co-mingled with your natural body scent and your perfume become a powerful erotic elixir. I want to breathe you in deeply into my own body just as I leave some of my body deep within you. But I am getting way ahead of myself now with this kind of daydream...

At present, we are still standing fully clothed in a hotel room. I have no idea whether I will be nuzzling you down there at all. You may not let me. But when I kiss you again on the neck, I am hoping for just that. Then you break the spell by speaking.

You say, "I want to use the bathroom to change into jeans. I told the babysitter and my husband I was meeting a girlfriend for a drink. So, I would rather go home in pants."

You continue, "So, what about the nightcap you promised me, mister-wine-expert?" as you do a cute pirouette and head into the bathroom.

I wonder if you changed into that little black dress after you left home. And I also wonder if you're serious about leaving without sex. I feel disappointed as you enter the bathroom with your bag in hand. I half expect (and fully hope) that you will come out of the bathroom in lingerie. Or, better still, you will present yourself to me completely naked. A guy can dream!

I had the foresight to leave a bottle of Champagne chilling in my room before I met you at the bar. It is one of my favorites: Billecart Salmon rosé. Light, and very dry with soft fruit flavors and a hint of toasty yeast. All this, with the fabulous scent of cherry blossoms, too. I thought another pink bubbly would be suitably romantic, too.

After weeks of erotic stories and random chat, I was sure you would join me in the room after dinner. What can I say? I'm confident. And I can tell that I have becoming an erotic thought you cannot easily dismiss. You are curious, aroused, and captivated by both feelings.

You come out of the bathroom in jeans, a baggy shirt and shoeless. Damn! I am somewhat surprised by this development, but I decide I will look at it as just another small challenge in our passion play.

I open the Champagne standing with my back to you as you exit the bathroom. I look over my shoulder to see what you're wearing and return to my task; hiding my disappointment. You approach from behind and wrap your arms around me. You hug me as an old lover might. I'm surprised by the sincere affection of your gesture. I really like it. I feel your face against the back of my neck. I wonder if you're a nuzzler too.

You continue to embrace me as I open the bottle. You watch me unwrap the foil. You are transfixed by how carefully I remove the wire cage while keeping one hand on top of the cork to prevent an accidental, explosive pop. I use both hands to open the bottle. I hold the cork firmly in place, while twisting the bottle instead. You wonder about this, but say nothing. I slowly pull the cork upward as I turn the bottle. I manage to prevent any real pop and allow the compression of the bottle to escape in a slow controlled way to prevent even a single drop of this precious liquid from bubbling out of the bottle.

You find yourself thinking of the male orgasm as a bit of Champagne bubble spill out of the bottle, and your thought makes you blush. Perhaps this is because we have not yet formally agreed on foregoing condoms for a natural finish. Since I have been monogamous for years and a vasectomy it would be completely safe in every way.

As I unwrap this bottle and remove the cork, you marvel at the careful, controlled dexterity of my fingers. I open the bottle with the finger control and concentration of a virtuoso cellist. You can't help but wonder how those same fingers will feel when they are applied as carefully to opening you. With this thought, you hug me again a little firmer as I pour the bubbly into two Champagne flutes.

I turn to face you, hand you a glass, raise one hand to toast, smile, and say, "Cheers, to you and other refined things." We each take a sip and smile at each other a bit like nervous teens.

You ask me the difference between Champagne glasses and flutes, nervously, just to break the silence. Although I suspect you know the answer, I explain that flutes are the only appropriate glasses for good bubbly as they preserve the bubbles longer by minimalizing surface area of exposed wine. Plus, they focus the bouquet right under your nose where you will most enjoy it. (A bit like my own nuzzling, I think to myself.)

I kiss you passionately. I let one of my hands drop down to cup your butt cheek. You respond willingly to my kiss and push your body into mine as I tug on your ass. We can feel the tingle of bubbles on each other's tongues. Then you coyly walk to the window next to the bed, as if to take in the cityscape, your champagne flute still in hand. I wonder if this is to really enjoy the view, or if you are consciously bringing us closer to the bed.

I follow you, drain my own glass and place it on the nightstand, turning on the radio as I do so. Oldies come on. Classic soul music to be exact. There is nothing like Marvin Gaye to enhance the mood. It is now my turn to hug you from behind as you look out the window. We can see ourselves slightly on top of the view, as a sort of ghostly image reflected in the dark glass. I wrap both my arms around as we share this view.

I tell you, "I love a woman in jeans. I prefer jeans to all other glamorous or sexy clothing." Your refection smiles back at me, as you take another sip of your wine and say nothing. I grew up in a blue-collar neighborhood and everyone wore jeans all the time. All my early sexual experiences were with girls in jeans, so arousal that starts with a woman in jeans always takes me back to my earliest and most powerful sexual memories. The first time I ever had my hands on a ready and willing pussy, happened in the pose we are now striking. At the time, I was 15 and my girlfriend was leaning on a fence watching a night football game. I was standing behind her just as I am now with you. I undid her old-school, button-fly, Levi 501s and then I slowly slipped my hand into her panties. She did not move at all. I can still recall exactly how it felt.

And, now I am about to do the same to you.

Standing behind you as I am, I press my body into yours as I wrap both my arms around you. My left arm cradles your breasts. They literally rest upon my forearm until my left hand reaches upward to softly caress your neck and face. You tilt your head back and make a sound a bit like a purr. I bite your right ear from behind. Softly.

My right arm wraps around you more loosely. This hand is now flat on your lower belly, at the level of your beltline. I pull you into me with that hand. You can now feel my erection through our jeans, pressing against your ass. I kiss the back of your neck again and drop my right hand lower with my fingers now pointed downward. I fully cup your crotch with this hand, over your jeans, and then pull you into me again. You push back into me suggestively with your butt.

I increase my grasp. The heel of my hand is pushing just hard enough against your fly that the pressure on your Mons is obvious to us both. I then release my grasp on your pubic mound and draw a small circle with my fingertips lightly over your jeans as if to indicate the bullseye where your clitoris is hidden below. You shudder. You exhale. And then you widen your stance, as if to say, "access granted."

I now place both my bare feet inside of yours. The outsides of both my feet are just touching the inside of both of yours, with skin-to-skin contact. It seems like I am holding your legs apart with my feet. But I am not really; you placed them this way yourself. I feel a bit like an aggressive policeman about to search you. Once you have settled down and begin breathing normally again, I notice that I can actually feel the heat radiating from your pussy, through your jeans. This really excites me. I whisper in your ear, "I want you." I glance at your reflection in the window and you now look sweetly girlish. You look almost like a happy young teen who has willingly submitted to pleasure. And to me. I think you have.

I slide my right hand up to your belt line and unbutton your jeans. You make an audible moan and start to speak. But don't. You have a zipper fly. I release the top button with my right hand and bring my left hand inside of your shirt and up to your breasts. I fondle them over your bra. I unzip your pants. You squirm and throw your head back again.

I start the inevitable slide of my right hand into your pants, then downward.

Ever...

...So

...Slowly

You do not resist as my fingers slide downward. Painfully slowly. I linger at your panty line. You are shaved furless You push your ass into me again as if to indicate your own impatience and desire.

So, I slide down further. Approaching your clit, I spread my fingers purposely to avoid direct contact on your sensitive little button. Instead, I fork my fingers so that two fingers are on one side of your clit and two are on the other. I continue downward so that the palm of my hand is now resting on the curve that underlies your bush. I capture the shape your Mons Pubis with my palm like a sculptor planning his next statue. My fingers spread your outer labia slightly from both sides. Your labia are noticeably wet well outside of your slit. Aroused would be an understatement.

I bring all my fingers back together and press the two middle ones into your pussy just slightly. Very, very shallow. I linger in this spot for a bit so I can appreciate the wetness and then slide my hand back upward. Upward until my now moistened fingertips are resting on your clit. This time I do touch her. I apply soft pressure and begin massaging that special spot in tiny circles using your own juices to lubricate. Alternating speeds and occasionally moving south to borrow a little more of your self-generated lubricant, I continue your clit massage. Keeping her wet to more effectively pleasure you. I clearly know what I am doing.

You purr softly and involuntarily. I speed the clit stimulation a bit and it seems like you are about to cum. It would really thrill me if I could make you climax from only a hand job. And then, just when I think you are about to reach orgasm, you wiggle free of my embrace and say, "We should stop... I must go now."

I do as instructed. But before I stop, I use a single finger to draw in a wet line from clit to cleavage and then remove my hand. You turn into me and look down at the bedside clock. I kiss you. You kiss back. Then I whisper the obvious, "I want you, baby".

To be continued...