First Times And Their Value In Life

First Times and Their Value in Life

Written by BeautyisUniversal

The morning air was crisp and fresh, and the red-purple rays of the dawn sun drifted above the horizon. In the breeze that day was the aroma of newly fallen pinecones, and if it might be distinguished, a taste of strawberries permeated the wonder of the start that day. Yet, not all was beauty, and grace, for Deriath, the reality of the moment was her sleep, and her bed. That was until those pesky, perky rays disturbed that sleep as they did each morning. They drifted through her window, the curtains revealingly pulled aside, only that they might do so. For she by far preferred the kiss of the dawn then the shrill cry of the metal box in any alarm or phone. The light of change did grant her a wish that morning, though she did not know it.

She only knew that her sleep had been ruined, as every morning. Still, it was unavoidable. Deriath Winalt was good at what she did in her life. At twenty-nine years of age, for most of her recalled days, her existence had been about placing clothes on her body, brushing her teeth, and making sure every assignment was complete, from grade school, through college, and onto graduate school. Every test, quiz, possible assessment was prepared for meticulously, even where unknown. Her perfectionism, if that might be a weakness of hers, had kept her a subject of the dawn for ages, it seemed.

Today was no different, and she rose, with warmth turning her olive cheeks slightly rosier, and ran a hand through her long, dark hair. Quickly, she stood, and was on her way. The mission to achieve her next degree called her. Without such a state of achievement, what options would she really have in the future? Surely, she would be left to scrub floors or organize some supervisor's wish list, menial tasks of little renown. Hers would be a place in the world, and history. Of that, significance in life was assured her.

As she touched the warm spot on her cheek, and made her way to the mirror on her wall, a sigh escaped her mouth. That was a hole in her life. Almost three decades of devotion to

options

had kept her very busy. Too busy for the arms or warmth or lips of a boy then, or at any point now, a man. With one final, half sigh, she ran a hand, ever so slightly over a breast--if only, maybe this year, she thought. Then she removed her pajamas as usual, to continue her preparation.

Looking at herself in the mirror, hers was a body to be admired, although some would have doubts. The olive skin, the emerald eyes filled with wisdom and intelligence, and broad smile, were all virtues useful to work and men alike. She had long, silky, black hair, which she cared for well, that smelled of roses. She purposely held a healthy approach to life--something her best friend from high school, now a relatively successful model, chided her regarding, on occasion.

It was not that she was overweight--on the contrary, as she, with some vanity, admired her form, there was little excess. Yet clearly she would be lost attempting her friend's profession. Really this went back to her parent's advice. They taught her to value and respect food and exercise, but that too little was as much a matter as too much. Surely, a life of balance, and happiness made in seeing herself as beautiful for being

healthy

was no sin, or calamity. Thus, while her friend in that chosen profession starved, or at the very least, ate too little, of too few foods she really desired, Deriath, since she was a child, had lived a life of moderation, a healthy, active, nutritious life that included some treats and special occasions: thus, a body of appropriate curves and proportions. Yet, in her beauty, she was not an actress, or skinny--she was wondrously at the perfect position of toned, happy, taught, and healthy.

With this recollection, the woman, almost thirty, thought a moment longer about the one regret, if it was such, that all of this had come at a price. She ran a hand along her chest, to breasts, they might be the size of a ripe, luscious apple, were they to be measured, but who is counting, and delicately, slowly moved her fingers and tips in circles. A pointer finger teased a nipple, ever so slightly, and she shivered for a moment. No, in almost thirty years she had never even been kissed, let alone... anything else. What great successes she had achieved, and they were many, had come at some expense.

Today was six months until her thirtieth birthday, and she was to attend her best friend Lorith's thirtieth. The party was to be of special magnificence, a final cheer before all celebrations ceased, as of course they must for any rational adult beyond that vaunted capstone. Dozens of guests were attending at her house, paid for by a moderately successful career having pictures taken of her body in a tasteful manner--Deriath did admire the art that went into these pictures, commercials, and even some longer scenes in movies and television. Lorith knew her art well, and was celebrated for it both publicly and financially. She also had little problem with men, although none had ever married her. If anything, Lorith felt she was beyond the solemn idea of marriage, opting for a cereal monogamy of serious relationships.

Deriath dressed modestly, yet she tried to look attractive. She wore a dress, going to the trouble of selecting something carefully, although not taking too long--after all, she had a day of work and studies that were far more important than any party that evening. For a moment, the woman thought that today was Saturday, and maybe she should be relaxing. After all, she worked so hard. She deserved time off of her busy goal in life to be noticed in the world. Then she laughed, for to be a pebble in the pond, one must carry a burden heavy enough to make ripples. It was only natural. Her dress was red, though, but her shoes were flat, and comfortable, for she did not believe in heels--why struggle with comfort to achieve beauty, when both may be accomplished? Her makeup was applied, and all of her routine passed with little thought. She brushed her lush hair, and thought about how this was all done just to impress the professors, and managers. What if she put this amount of thought into the party tonight?

As expected, the day was a success, and more awards would have been earned for her performance and accomplishments had any been there to notice or hand them out. The fact was she was smart, and intelligent, and deserved all of that praise. She would accomplish great deeds in time, professionally. The work day passed, without much notice, and she was once again, alone in her house, preparing for the evening, the party, which in her mind, would likely have a similar note. Only, she hoped, six months before her thirtieth birthday, that something tonight might be different. As if in some extra expectation, with a chuckle, she did not know what she was thinking, she put some extra perfume on her body, between her lower lips, which she took a moment to lightly rub with her fingers: particularly, that one spot. She shivered, and sighed, for a moment. If only, tonight would bring something new--an additional element to her life.

Her dress was purple, and she had sapphire earrings in her ears. She did take the trouble to put on an outfit, once again, although less attention than she did for work. And her earrings were the ones she had been given by her mother for her birthday six years earlier. Not much in her social life had changed in that time, at least among friends, and all other aspects. So, she got a ride share, and traveled to the event, her best friend's great sendoff into the world of age.

The party was quite magnificent, and Deriath offered the appropriate, and well-meant congratulations to her friend. There was some jealousy seeing Lorith's latest man kiss her, with passion, and intention, perhaps more than was appropriate, many times. Clearly, this was a hint of what the after party would be for the two of them. That was not what Deriath's birthday had ever been about in any respect. Not that there had never been boys there, on the occasion she had time to even have parties. None had been attached to her like that, with longing in their eyes. Still, she would not give up her life, or her past. Deriath was a strong, independent woman with great potential. So what if this one aspect of her life were diminished.

As the evening was drawing towards an end, the olive-skinned woman stood next to the table with the coffee drinks, of a number of varieties. Normally she would have enjoyed a reasonable number of hard drinks at a party like this. Yet something about the night made her more sober than usual--not that she had too much ever--but she hardly drank at all tonight. In fact, if anything, now she was trying to remind herself to put a cup of coffee into a mug, and this was the fourth attempt at remembering. An attractive couple was seated on a loveseat opposite the table, and they had kissed a number of times. It was hard to ignore the significance and potential of family and romance when society had a way of bringing fresh reminders constantly. That is when a man arrived at the table to retrieve his own cup.

He was not distracted, and was in the process of placing a brown sugar cube into it, and a little cream, retrieving a wooden stirrer to combine them in proper proportions, when he looked over his shoulder, and noticed the attractive woman staring at him.

"It must be the scar," he said, as he finished preparing his drink, and turned to her fully, to engage in conversation, the type of thing two adult individuals do at a social event, after all.

Time passed, and it was at that moment that Deriath realized it had been more than a pause.

"Everyone starts by seeing the scar," said the man. "Six years ago I tripped and fell while I did my Saturday shift during lunch at the soup kitchen in downtown. If that knife had been two inches to the left, the doctors said I would have lost an eye. Really, I was very lucky. My name is Eric, by the way. Eric Brothou. I must tell you now, you have truly some of the most exquisite eyes I have ever seen. Perhaps, that is a little too cliché for an introduction."

Eric chuckled. The laughter brought Deriath out of her seeming stillness, a dream it was like, and in it she thought she heard, and saw, a handsome man, and he complimented her, and was not awful.

"My name is Deriath," she said. "Although I do not usually do this. I like that you work at the soup kitchen. I wish I had time for that. It always makes me wonder when I see someone in need on the street. There are only so many hours in the day. Also, I did not notice the scar. Now that I do, if anything... it gives you character. You have something of a battle-hardened quality. I am glad you did not lose your eye. Maybe you would not have seen fit to compliment me."

Eric laughed again, and that sound was music in her ears, the most pleasant melody, like something from her youth, and a grand orchestra in the most impressive symphony of her present.

"You are quite a woman," said Eric. "I don't recall having a conversation like this before. Not in some time. Would I be too bold to see if you might consider meeting me for a cup of coffee, perhaps this week?"

"That is bold, sir," said Deriath, with a smile forming. "Besides, it seems we are having coffee now. What new vision would I see in the light of day? Would I be pleased, or shocked and disappointed?"

"I see an empty cup," said Eric. "Though, you have put a valiant effort into pouring it. I can relate. Those of us who are busy most of the time, may get distracted in our limited free time. Allow me."

With that, he poured her a cup of coffee, while her mouth opened somewhat, and her tongue wet her lips just slightly.

"Sugar, cream?" he asked.

"I will take a little of each, thank you," said Deriath.

"If you insist on this being coffee," said Eric, handing her the mug, "We may as well proceed to our second date, and get dinner. Why take it slow? We live in fast times, do we not?"

"That was not the best line," said Deriath, now with some doubt. "I prefer, given my vast experience in this matter, a slow progression, with a climatic conclusion. Yet in the meantime, I would love to know a bit more about you. What is it that you do with your life. Do speak more

slowly

, for these may be the last words you and I share."

"As you wish," said Eric, with a partial bow of the head. "I am an associate professor at one of the local universities. I teach anthropology, do research, and write books. I have even been in the field a few times, although my career is still fairly fresh. My hopes are to eventually make tenure, and live a happy career, with an equal wife and family, here in this lovely city. Maybe we will have a cat and a fish."

"How old is the professor?" she said, smiling a little more, and taking in the sight, more seriously.

Eric was about six feet tall. He had dark hair, no facial hair, and blue eyes. He did have a scar about two inches to the right of his left eye, yet it made him look the part of some former warrior. That particularly seemed possible, as this man obviously visited the gym, or otherwise exercised both with weights, and to stay healthy and fit. He was slightly larger, but only because of that build--though he was certainly no body builder.

"I am thirty-six," said Eric. "And I served in the United States Marines for four years. I can tell by the way you look at me. That is always the second part of me they see. 'How does the professor stay so fit?' Well I suppose I developed quite a habit for it. I would not say that I am a natural military man, and I did not serve as an officer. Merely, it was my role to return something to my country and community, and get some funds to help with college. Once my debt was paid, it has been all about my academics and career since. Or rather, I still take care of myself, and others to the extent you know. Only, you would probably recognize my life style as more of a typical professor today--at least one of liberal arts."

"I would say you still do help people," said Deriath. "Serving the needy with your time is doing something. It is more than most, even I commit on a regular basis. From the look of things, you suffered more obvious trauma in that role than on the battlefield."

They both laughed.

"My family always found that funny," he said. "I would get struck by a knife working in the soup kitchen, but not while in the Marines. I cannot pretend that my time of service was particularly difficult. Of course, I had to do my duty, and work hard. Yet it was peace time, and I did not see any battle beyond our training. I was very lucky."

"The fact that you made yourself available is also enough," said Deriath. "Who knows when a Marine will be called to battle. If you did your four years in peace, and were discharged honorably, you are still a hero."

Eric blushed slightly.

"Look, I made the hero blush," she laughed. "You know what... if you can also show emotion like that, I will take you up on that offer to get dinner. You should know this is a first for me... in a long time."

With that, she quickly, and after having had some coffee, retrieved a card from her purse, and handed it to him. In reply, he smiled, but made sure to take the card before speaking. He put the card, carefully, into his neat, and organized wallet. When he returned it, she noticed the bulge in his pocket--of notable size.

"First, I was going to say it is funny that you and I still prefer the old ways, and use cards," said Eric. "Second, that is just my wallet. That being said, when the time comes, I do not believe you will be disappointed."

Now Deriath blushed, and pushed his shoulder, before finishing her coffee.

"With that kind image, dear sir, I believe will excuse myself, until the exalted night of our date arrives," she said. "You have much to prove! Until then, I believe we will both be very busy. Do not forget to call. And remember, that slow and steady, with a big climax, may be a virtue here."

"I will be a gentleman, and your happiness will be my first concern," said Eric. "Why hurry when we have ample time before us."

With that, Deriath departed the party, in another ride share. The journey home was a mix of emotions. For the first time in her life, she had a date with a man. In sudden suspicion, she looked him up on her phone, feeling guilty about it. The man did have a public life, exactly as presented, and to answer her concern, it was at a different academic institution than hers. There was no inherent flaw in this plan. If anything, this was quite a match, and it made her heart, and other parts of her, flutter.

When she arrived at home, she undressed, and removed her makeup, putting on her pajamas, and getting in bed. Lighting a few candles, she had some important final activities to attend to before the night was over, particularly in light of the circumstances. Once in bed, she lay atop the sheet, and made her intentions known.

Deriath ran her hands along her body, slowly, and carefully. This was meant to be gentle at first, to touch all the right, most sensitive places. Yet, only, in the right order. Slowly at first, she caressed her body, for minutes, until she drew closer to a center that beat of its own accord. Her insides were wet, and she lightly rubbed a finger along those lips, on the outside of her pajamas, and even with that a moan escaped her. Her thoughts, given shape and form, were wild, and reached a very hard point. With purpose, she removed any obstacles obstructing her from her happiness.

Completely naked, the passion continued, with new fervor, and delight. Flesh on flesh, her fingers worked on her body, and sweat, and her muscles quacked, and she stretched, and barely felt the surface of the bed, almost as if she were afloat, in a sea of emotion, free, untethered. Slow at first, her fingers moved everywhere, she knew her tempo, only now, the new images, added additional forms, and thoughts. These fantasies, driven by desire of what might be, increased the pace. Her fingers, running all along her body, finally, she touched, she felt, and her clitoris called to her. Her fingers caressed her outer folds, her inner lips, ever aware of this center of delight, the heart of nectar.

Surely, the bulge would know its purpose, that power, and might, and with a thrust of her fingers, the pressure, and stimulations, her breathing increased, drops of liquid landed on the sheets, and a moan escaped her. Round, and round, and round... repetition, a skill useful in many, many bodies, and ways, made perfect, and sublime, and beautiful, in a field of pedals and roses. She could almost smell... carnations and lilies. Stars and light swam in her eyes, and her muscles contracted, her fingers searched, to find that one spot, the perfect place, to be there, at just the right moment, and she quivered on the brink, a liquid made the bed moist at the entrance to her vagina.

With a shatter, the force engulfed her, broke her defenses, and penetrated her mind, deep, deep within, in an explosion of sensation. Her whole body was defined by contraction, and spasm, that ecstasy of feeling, rolling in waves, throughout her being, her essence. Every place, every crevice was shaken to its core, in rocking, heat, and sweat, and wonder of breathing and a pain that had to be released in that moment. Her fingers worked that one point, penetrated and in that instant, her body stopped.

Her breath came in tremendous waves, in little motions within, in ripples of muscles, past her lips, over and over, but diminishing, and now she was left, as often, in the afterglow of action, returning to herself. She returned from a place of light and star, to a soft bed, at night, to a wetness between her legs on the sheets, and perspiration everywhere. Awareness that this had been especially intense, for she had new thoughts, and hopes. If only, they might be answered.