PLAUDITS OF THAT UNLETTERED MOMENT (con't) -- #4
He was aptly grateful for Cyndy, because she was the charmingly naughty gardener who made James' soul blossom. Was she a dangerous plaything? Damn straight she was. Was any of this dysfunctional? No way in hell.
He hastened his motions, hips bucking, fingers tightening in her hair, his body tensing with the frenzied build-up of having been without all too long. He shuddered with intoxicating intensity, and then with sudden and unexpected and deliberate intent, he pushed her head away. His cock bobbing from her mouth. His eyes boring into her. "No!"
"But..." Confusion twisted her insides. "Have I done it wrong?"
"You are, were awesome."
"So let me finish."
"This is not just about me. I want to make love to you."
Befuddlement showed in her gaze that suddenly flashed up at him. There hadn't been a situation, yet, that a man denied his natural primal urges, especially not at this juncture. The puzzlement mingled with a fresh spasm of desire. It morphed from his exceptional restraint and his abrupt power over her. She sensed his decision would sever her connection to the past, to any sexual event she had known before. His satisfaction could wait as he made their dual bliss paramount. From time to time reasoning with James was like trying to saddle a cow, so much work, and what's the point.
He encouraged her to rise from her knees, peered into her eyes, winked, cupped her face with his hands and leaned toward her, a whispering breeze of syllables tickled her ear. "This isn't just sex, Sweetart."
Those words transfigured a long time belief that men were hunters and women their game. He wanted a bond. He wanted a greater connection. He wanted her. "Eat me." She playfully winked.
"Sappy alert. You're my soul mate, and I want to make love to you, to make you my own, to cement our souls into a bridge that shall span all time."
Society had taught that women were to remain motionless, until they were wooed, as if a spider waiting on the unwary fly. "Oh..." Tears misted her eyes. This was what she wanted, yearned for, dreamed about, and in this respect she was virginal for she never had it. Her body cried out for release, her nipples puckering against lace and fabric while her pussy tingled, dampening her panties. Quick shallow breaths broke her paralyses, and her mouth formed the word, "Yes."
"Yes, sir, what?"
"I do want to make love to you."
"That's Mister Whore."
They kissed. At first it was sweet but the overrun of sensation morphed into tongues wrestling for the perfect placement. Their fluidity would flood and wash them into a place of greater wetness.
Cavalier expectancies were the termites of deterioration. However, Cyndy was completely present in this moment, enthralled by every movement, captivated by each sensation and jittering with anticipation.
Though wholly eager to move forward, an inner resistance wanted to freeze time, encapsulate it, to hold onto the reality of his words, his intentions, and her own awakening to this soulful connection. Time had its own momentum, and wouldn't be denied. So she flowed into it with paramount keenness. Their love letters were campaigns of their hearts, fattened on smooth words. They had bonded over many words shared, and she began to understand the love was friendship set a fire. So easy when he was so hot.
Cyndy stepped away, surprising James by reaching for the hem of her dress, and pulling it up and over her head. It lingered on the tip of her fingers for an instant, and then drifted to the floor. The silvery night glow in the room catching the frailty of it in blinks of shadow and light. The act underscored the direction their tryst was heading and the honest degree of comfort she felt with him. Oh so many of her dalliances were just a cock liberated from trousers and the jism liberated into her mouth, while she was still dressed. This was different. She found herself that fish whose heart was caught in the net of love.
Vulnerability to real love had been Cyndy's closed book, that was also belted shut, placed in a hat box, ribbon tied in a bow, transported to her bank to be kept in a reinforced steel vault that happened to be two-hundred and fifty feet below the surface, protected by belt-and-suspenders alarm system and guarded by the cyborg assassins from Terminator. Just as plants don't grow well in the dark, she retrieved that weakness and laid it open to James. This was that exploding cigar which she was willing to light. She looked forward to the exploding.
Love's tongue was found in the eyes. James eyelids pinched into intense and appreciative slivers as he took in her enormous breasts barely contained by the ecru colored bra.
She smiled. Once purged of vanity, possibilities multiplied, wobbled to tantalize.
He was the ancient Hun soldier wanting to plunder the village's damsels, spirit hot and heavy, but he swallowed to control his breathing, less it turn completely into that of a panting Hun-beast. Oh, yes, that full core feral wolf, howling in the wilds upon finding his life-mate. Was the command over his inner-animal out of fear or scaring her or himself? Neither. It was good erotic technique.
She purred audibly and without any fretting she slinked her frontage toward his touch.
He continued to watch as she undid the bra's front latch amid a sway that flowed to the sultry beat of a love dirge that was looping in her mind. The separation was first held tight but with each rock and wave she shared more until her fleshy tits announced themselves.
Their ouster from the garment changed the banks of grey torrent in his life into flowery shores. She had been blessed and she gifted him.
There was no spillage or drooping, for despite their weight they were firm and round and blushing rose tipped.
That beast he held at bay hinted a spontaneous growl, splashing on her, not chilly nor havoc-wreaking but purely base. The cosmic artists that created the physical beauty that was Cyndy, stopped with her, retired, why, she was their pièce de résistance. Skin so silky, firm and blemish free. Every curve on one symmetrical to the other. The nuance of size and shape catapulted the male libido into a frenzy. If magazines rated great boobage as tens, Cyndy intimidated them all with her twelves.
Cyndy had thought of love, practiced that gamesmanship of it, sensing it was like checkers, whereas, one had to know which man to move. Her tits were her best salvo. King these!
One plus one equaled everything but one minus one equaled nothing. She was a student of the math of love, but never had she so ciphered. She was committed to their discovery.
The crown peaks reached upward, pinpoints that demanded consideration and openly invited attention as well as a sojourn of familiarity. He accepted the invitation and stretched forward, curling one hand around a plump breast, grazing the turgid nipple back and forth with his thumb.
Love and lust were the wild roses found in the meadows of the minds, so stunning and calm, but willing to exact blood in their defense. Cyndy knew her mind and sheathed her thorns. Why? She wanted to know the Kingdom of James, a place ruled without a sword, nurtured by compassion, and founded on consistency and patience.
The warm hue spreading across her face rewarded his action, and he wanted more. As if the warming sunshine after the spring rain, he treated her second tit to the same dose of adoration, lovingly comforting, teasingly squeezing and playfully pinching as if an added bonus.
Swaying into his touch, her straddle string was haunted by the power of a clit evoked by erogonistic thoughts. She released a breathless sigh. Her fingers clenched his biceps, as if admitting she couldn't remain standing without his help. This was her love song, a caress set to music, and that tune was tapped out by her fingers.
Her nipples became denser and larger under his encouragement, seemingly begging for more consideration. That beseeching created a flow between her thighs, so wildly dramatic that she could have jested she needed galoshes. Lust kissed by love was a cunning wistful weaver of fable, daydreams, and fantasies. Cyndy found herself entwined within that fabric.
He had wings, came quickly, and flew away. She could not cage him, just enjoy him, and maybe fly at his wing. She saw James as the ultimate bad boy, never actually adhering to the rules, pushing the edges, asking for more, and the best she could do was be his rabid, willing accomplice. Every facial expression, every minuscule touch, every sigh and whisper displayed her eagerness to engage in the intimacy he offered. Without words she pled for all he offered and more.
She merely uncorked her imagination while bottling any commonsense. At that moment it would not be incongruous to believe that if James engaged her in heavy kink she would resist. If he unceremoniously exploited every orifice simultaneously, she'd multitask, why, he was a messiah and she his flock of one. She refused to escape from the frantic and savage master; sex. (to be continued)
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