A Stolen Moment

You touch my hand, softly, caressing the back of it and waiting to see how I will respond. I hold my breath, not pulling away, yet not daring to go further... you're so difficult to read, you know. You smile, and bring my hand to your lips and oh so lightly—light as a feather!--you brush against it, and in that moment you've won me over—not that you hadn't before, when it comes down to it. But now, I am no longer afraid. Tentative, hesitant, shy—quite so, but unafraid.

You draw me to my feet and nestle your hand at the small of my back as you usher me across the room, back into the place where the lights are dim and the music plays, just a brush across the eardrums. The bedroom. I smile; a toothy grin would not be right with the solemnity of the occasion, and so I temper it, a demure upturning of my lips to signify that I find your attentions most welcome.

I know it's wrong. I know that we should not be doing this. My husband is a bastard and your wife is a shrew and both of them are with their respective lovers, doing God-knows-what in who-knows-where. And really, why should I care? You are here and so am I and I know that it is a vague, undefined thing we have—I know I love you.

Do you love me?

I don't dare to hope because both of us are fucked, you know.

But here, in your smile and bathed with the the warmth of your eyes, I feel beautiful. I'm moaning even before you can slip the satin off my shoulders, low breathy noises that he's never inspired me to make before. Can you fault me? Your ministrations are so firm, but delicate; I feel like I'm the most precious orchid, spreading my petals within the safety of your embrace.

I can feel you straining against the fabric of your trousers—boldly, I reach a hand in order to stroke against you. My dress is off; I'm standing in only my knickers—black, lacey things—and my bra—specially bought for you, but that's a secret—and I feel like you're a bit overdressed, darling. You hiss as I slip down the zipper and unfasten you. I smile, pressed against you as I move for the buttons—such interminable buttons!--on your shirt and seek to feel all of you bare against my own bare skin.

You tease me as you draw patterns on me, never once touching the places I want you to. You chuckle as I make sounds of frustrations and catch my bottom lip with my teeth in a frown. Then you're lifting my feet from under me and placing me oh so delicately on the sumptuous coverlet, and I'm patting the place beside me even as I wantonly splay my legs for your perusal.

You don't disappoint. The time for niceties and gentleness is over and I can feel my lips bruising as you all but attack them and I pull you down, closer, closer. Did we still have clothes on? They're gone now and I'm glad of it—needing skin to skin, lips to lips, hips to

Ooohh.... You slide home and I lock my legs around you, ruefully surprised at your lack of foreplay but not regretful that you've not waited. I need you, feeling the strength of your manhood in the welcoming acquiescence of my of feminine folds. You're slow tonight, but strong—nearly brutal and I dimly realize that I've never known quite this combination before when you take every thought out of my head as you speak, your voice hard and velvety as you tell me,

“Take all of me, you dirty little girl,” and I nearly come undone but you pull out at just the last possible second--

and then you're inside of me again, riding me and groaning and I can hear my own cries join with yours until at last we are

completed.

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I've started several posts over the past few days, but I haven't liked any of them.  But of course, I'd rather not leave this blog to sit for too long!  I wrote this short little piece a few months ago; I hope you like it! (And if you do, why not click here  and have blog updates sent to your email address?)

Photo found here via Tumblr.