"I Should Go," a sizzling affair story by R.W. Dakota
Time, by Mick Payton (prints available at ObsessionArt.com)
“I should go.”
She said it while the laughter was fading into vapor. She said it the moment she realized she didn’t want to go. She said it as a parachute opening too late. She looked down, conscious of his closeness, his smell, his eyes, his shoulders, his hand. She said it as a plea to stay.
Her husband would be out of town until the following Monday. The neighbor had offered her a chair on his porch, which had turned into a beer and an hour and a half of easy talk. He charged her, her body tingled with electricity—tiny firecrackers between her legs.
“You don’t have to.”
His words were soft, but they fired at her like a back draft. He studied her carefully, questioning.
She fought his tendrils of inquiry along with her own answering trills. She was unreservedly aroused just by his proximity, his casual voice, the easy flow of movement through his long, slim limbs. Their words, the questions, the resolutions, formed a living thing between them. He got up.
“Did you want me to get that book for you?” he asked nonchalantly.
She checked like a horse before an unfamiliar stream, her mind leapt sideways. Was that all he had meant? Did his words “you don’t have to” imply nothing more than a continuation of his manners? They had been discussing a book she had in fact told him she wanted to read, and it turned out he owned it. Maybe it was perfectly fine to go in and retrieve a book? Maybe that really was all he wanted?
She stood and followed him inside, wondering where the boundaries for this kind of thing were.
She’d been in his house countless times before. Sparse, man-in-nature with a few rejected female things to remind anyone who ventured in of his ex-husband-status; he’d been divorced for over four years.
His house smelled like him, like he’d used himself as room spray. The scent wrapped itself around her like rough linen, goosing her further back into the corner of her arousal. He had Miles Davis yonking along quietly on the stereo. Alarm bells blared in her head. She really should leave.
But instead, she followed behind him across the room to the bookshelf, staring at the floor so she couldn’t watch his ass moving beneath his shorts. He stopped in front of the shelf, perused it in a sexy, relaxed way, then knelt down to examine the titles on the bottom ledge. She stood too close to him, despite her censor sirens. Her knees nearly brushed his shoulder blades. She felt a pang of sadness and guilt as she gazed at him, the heat in her radiating into him, impossible for him to deny.
She reached out, effortlessly, but over a chasm so vast she had would never thought it possible to breach three years ago—before they moved next door to him, before she met him in his drive way, taking a break when she was painting, and fantasized about him that night, before they had met and talked so easily—she reach out and slipped her fingers up to curl around the tiny short hairs at the nape of his neck.
When he looked up at her, she knew the boundaries between friendly neighbor and affair had been shattered. She tried to step back, but found herself moving impossibly forward into his back when his hand came to rest over hers. She was suspended over the brink of his cliff, terrified of what was happening. His fingers, long and powerful, interlaced with hers, scattering her across the room. His eyes were sad too. She knew he was not “that man,” his nature was honesty. She knew he was her husband’s friendly acquaintance. She knew he had been devastated by his divorce, so many years ago. The conflict of Right and Desire raged such a bloody battle between them, she felt like she was taking machine gun fire to her body, the bullets lustfully ripping through her body.
He turned on his knees before her and embraced her legs, his face in her stomach just above the now throbbing void between her legs that had taken her body hostage. She ran her fingers through his short, dark hair. Touching him was glorious, like the rush of water released over caked, parched Earth. So often she had writhed in fantasy, wanting his hands on her, his fingers roving over her, his mouth and tongue on her, her own fingers poor substitutes for his. Her very cells strained to get to him, trying to push into the shrinking air between them. His arms held her to him fiercely, as if he clung to her to keep from falling himself.
She felt him pulling her down, the force tantalizingly faint. In desperate ecstasy, she sank into his hands, the bare skin of her thighs receiving his touch triumphantly, her skirt offering no barrier. The fall took forever, the sensation of his hands exploring her legs making her rigid but liquid. She opened her knees before him as she slid down, assuming her panties would simply be washed away. His fingers found her so wet, it was impossible for them not to slip instantly inside. She looked directly into his eyes, his face so handsome and torn with thirst. Connected to his eyes, she began to move with his fingers, slipping along the pulsing hard mound of her clit, pleased she could show him the procession of the orgasm overtaking her.
It started in her ass and washed forward, rippling through the walls of her sex, flooding her softly swollen pink bud beneath his strong, capable fingers. He watched her hungrily as she arched, her chest thrust forward, cries no longer caged by her mouth, breaking out. She wanted to display her wanton hunger for him, to offer him her rippling spasms like a confession. As she slipped down over the brink, she began to sag with release. His body supported her, taking control of her movements, slowly working them both gently to the nearby couch.
He reclined her body like silk before him as she watched him through her lust-shot eyes. She could think of nothing else now. Her entire life tossed out to sea in a life raft, to find its way back to her. He dominated her whole being, and she felt like she would ceases to exist if she couldn’t have more of him now. The passionate release had been a toxic drug, obliterating her reason.
He was on the floor beside her, regarding her almost ruefully. “I’m sorry,’’ were his words, murmured, dripped in remorse. “So am I,” she mumbled, sensitively back into his ear, then took his head to bring his lips finally to hers. The kiss was soft, flavorful, rich. She drank it like a gasping child. The shock of his taste and scent and touch all at once crashed into her pussy again. She fought off another onslaught of pleasure, fighting to give him gratification as well. She moved to smooth the skin beneath his shirt, which she then lifted off over his head, at last, like a wedding veil, revealing his chest, years of conjuring up the contours of his chest and shoulders and back in her day dreams rallying behind her intensifying exploration. Her hands were greedy for the feel of his skin. She wanted desperately to take it slow, but her body had given up obeying her wishes. Now it cared only for her desire.
She dropped one hand down to the open legs of his shorts, working nimbly upwards as she’d longed to do forever, and found the edge of his boxer-style briefs. As his tongue caressed hers, she slid her hand around to the inside of his thigh and, at last, found the tension rod of his cock, the heat of it through the thick cotton material instantly rushing up her arm. He made a deep noise in her mouth that blasted a hot longing around her spine like an injection of mad butterflies. She began to fear she would never be able to get enough of him, that now that the floodgates had been opened, she would never be able to get enough of him into her.
She eased herself into an upright position on the couch facing him, and moved his body between her open legs. From this angle, she was able to unfasten his shorts with two hands, while keeping his mouth on hers. She raised herself up so he could work her soaking panties down, raising one leg at a time to slip the material pulling away from her aching sex and down, sending sparkler paratroopers to storm her sea weed beaches. Her skirt was up around her ass. His couch was too high for him to fuck her from his knees on the floor, so she pulled him up, and it was her turn to gaze up at him.
His boxers were obscene in their restriction of his cock. She carefully shifted them down over the swell, his member leaping free. She was almost beside herself with hunger for him. She rushed to put him in her mouth, tasting his body, savoring the impossibly velvet skin of him there. It was exquisitely delicious, like stuffing handfuls of rich chocolate cake into her mouth. She gorged on him shamelessly. His hands moved through her hair, and he made sexy-man noises.
She looked up at him, her hands around his shaft, and watched his face as she manipulated him. His eyes were closed, lips parted in a pant. She licked the tip, circling her tongue around the underside of the head, eyes fixed on his face. The expressions that sailed across his features, like swift moving storm clouds, intoxicated her further. She felt a wave of powerful vibrations encroaching, just from having him in her mouth. She sucked on his sac, running her tongue along the seam. His hands clenched and unclenched in her hair. His precum beaded on the top indentation of the smooth, silky head, which she took and moved over her lips, glossing them with the salty seaweed taste that registered as nectar in her brain. She wanted to feel his ejaculation in her mouth, but her body was so taut with escalating need, it would be put off no longer.
“You need to make love to me now,” she said.
He started at the sound of her voice, and then looked down into her eyes. He obeyed, deliberately going slow, fighting the drive to race. She shook; her stomach tight and knotted. She eased back and turned to lie, length-wise, on the couch, her back on the armrest. He kept one foot on the floor, brought up his other knee between her spread legs, and she felt his body quivering beneath his skin. His erection, hot and commanding, the skin stretched over the shaft so tightly it pulsed, hovered above the grasping ripe seashell spread before him. His powerful arms were on either side of her shoulders, the reclined position affording them the satisfaction of staring into each other’s eyes.
He put his face to hers, his forehead on hers, his lips suspended over hers, and pushed into her with one long, graceful thrust. She arched immediately, straining up to draw him deeper inside of her still, his thick cock brushing her clit. Tremors of intensity rolled through her, thunderous like steam engines. Lights danced in a laser show on the backs of her eyelids. She felt like she might actually pass out. Having his body within her—firm, hard, hot, fluid, mixing with hers finally after years of wanting him every day detonated inside her. The pleasure burst inside her, and she collapsed like a building being demolished from the inside. The sensation of his answering shudders coursing through his body was perfection.