I wake up in the dark.
I feel warm, safe, and a little sore. Memory filters in as I lay there in warmth, and my cheek is pressed against a warm thigh, and I smile and turn my face slightly to kiss the skin, with its dark hairs. I got married yesterday. I will share my life now with this man who found me, who understands me, who loves me. He smells of sweat and sex, and how I ended up head to toe with him I'm not sure; I had curled up with my head on his chest, listening to his heart beat and the breath sigh in and out of his chest. My eyes are adjusting now, and in the dim light through the vertical blinds on the hotel windows, cast by streetlights -- it isn't even morning yet, but I guess a city is never fully dark -- I can see his cock, lying soft and quiescent there, inches from my face.
I was a virgin until last night. Or, maybe just earlier this night, I don't know what time it is. In this day and age, I suppose that's strange, but it seemed important to me. My friends all called me old-fashioned, but I didn't take it as they meant it. Personally, I didn't see what was so wonderful about being modern; all it seemed to me was more work and a haphazard grab for whatever caught your eye that day. Me, I had goals. I had ambitions. So they didn't synch with what today told us we wanted. I didn't care. I'd never been good at listening to what other people told me I should be. I was what I wanted.
And Michael had understood. I knew he'd wanted more. I knew he ached for it, and I have to be honest: it made me smile a little, knowing he held himself back. Respect is a powerful thing. He knew what I wanted too, and he wanted to give it to me. I wasn't completely merciless; we'd dated for months, and I'd relieved him in other ways. It wasn't entirely easy for me, either; Michael wasn't the only one that went home, aching and frustrated, and a few times, I thought about just giving up, giving in. But Michael had reminded me, had held himself back. Respect. Honor. Strength of character. I think I was sure that moment, that first time, when he pushed me back, reminded me I wanted to wait, when at that moment all I wanted was him, all of him, as much of him as I could get. I wasn't happy. But he was right, and he forgave me the things I said to him that night when I told him so afterwards. I can be kind of vicious when my blood is up.
It had been worth it, though. Michael had been kind, tender, and the buildup....Well, I think I woke up the day of our wedding horny, and was glad I'd chosen a long, full skirted dress, because I wasn't about to wear panties on my wedding day and by the time we stood at the altar I think I felt myself slick to my calves. When he kissed me, the feelings were so intense, my love for him and my joy at finally, finally fulfilling this dream of mine, that I think I came on the spot. I don't remember, everything dissolved under his lips, but I do remember the minister looking at me oddly and my knees being very wobbly.
The rest of the ceremony had been torture. The reception was interminable; Michael was my rock again, murmuring to me about patience and kissing me dizzy whenever my own began to give out. The pleasant fog his lips imparted on me would get me through another half hour or so. Later, my mother asked me if I had medicated myself for the occasion; when I told her the truth, she hadn't stopped laughing for a full five minutes.
And then, the hotel room. Michael had stripped me slowly, and discovered I had shaved for him, that I wasn't wearing panties, and that I'd been soaking wet for most of the day. He peeled me out of the overwrought wedding dress, made me wait while he took off his own clothes, and then kissed me, and I finally felt it, skin against skin, flesh and heat and him, and I was lost. I became a panting animal, nothing but want and need and lust, but Michael was steady and strong as ever. When he kissed my throat, I groaned. When he kissed my breasts, I clutched his hair and gasped, his beard tickling my soft skin. His hands cupped over them, nipples hard and sensitive against his rough palms, and my back arched into his touch as I made little keening noises, desperate. His tongue was hot and wet and traced lines of fire in my flesh, downward over my belly, the muscles there twitching as he kisses my navel, my mound, lower....
At the first touch of his lips on my pussy, I scream. I pull his face between my legs, unashamed, hooking my knees over his shoulders and spreading my thighs wide for him, feeling his beard scratch at my skin, his tongue and breath at the heart of me, and I don't know how it can still feel so warm when I am burning up. He teases me, long licks, tasting of me, drinking of me, and it doesn't take long. What I felt at the altar? That wasn't a climax.
THIS was a CLIMAX.
I feel like I'm being squeezed, every muscle tensing, and what comes out is not a scream but a grunt, followed by a shuddering groan as I clutch Michael to my spasming sex. God, how I've wanted this. But I want more. I pull his hair, desperate to pull him up to me, over me, into me. He comes up willingly enough, his face and short beard shiny and wet, and I don't kiss him, but lick at his face and beard, tasting myself on him, driven out of my mind with lust and sharing my essence with him. I don't taste bad, really. The smell is intoxicating. My legs come up and wrap around his hips, trying to pull him down.
"Now?" he asks, and I nod, not quite able to speak yet.
He enters me.
Three words that change a world. It doesn't do it justice. The sensation... I feel the head of his erection, thick and hot and hard, probe momentarily, then slide in. There is resistance; I feel it inside too. He kisses me, holding himself there. "Hold on," he whispers, but I'm already clinging to him for dear life. I know what's coming.
