The Literary Courtesan

An erotic salon where my pen will stroke your senses.

Sunday, February 27, 2005

Enya's tired of winter

Imagine that it’s a moonlit night in June, right after the equinox. We’ve been at the conference all day. In the morning, you went to a workshop and I worked on my book. That afternoon, in the heat of the day, we took a hike and then took a sweaty nap wrapped in each other’s arms. Dinner was followed by a reading and then a couple of glasses of wine with our fellow writers. But now, now it’s almost midnight and we’re finally alone again. The whole time we were at the reading,the heat of your leg next to mine radiated through me and I resisted the urge to explore your belly with my hand. Later, at the bar, you kept your hand on the small of my back, and that point of contact between us became the center of my universe.
I’ve suggested we go for a walk. We take the road up away from campus. It’s perfectly clear and we take turns pointing out various constellations to one another. The moon is full, so some of the stars are blanked out, but the Milky Way is clearly visible. The cicadas and the crickets are competing for auditory supremacy. It should be a quiet night, but it’s not; the air vibrates with the sounds of insects, and that vibration plays itself as a thrum in my groin. The longing for contact with your body has built all night. You must be able to sense it, perhaps you can even smell it on the night air. If we continue up the road, we’ll wind up on the old ski run. We could lay down in the middle of the field, make love under the stars, but we’ll rise covered in mosquito bites. I have something else in mind. As we come level with the graveyard, I pull you to the left, down a little path to the chapel. It’s always open, and it’s always empty. As it is now.
We pull open the heavy doors, walk into utter silence. The moon is streaming through the wall of windows. As much as I love to watch your face as you make love to me, I don’t turn the lights on. I want to touch you in the shadows, let us touch each other without our eyes as the guides.
We walk around the corner, enter the sanctuary. It is empty; just a few chairs facing an open altar. One wall of windows; one wall of stone. Behind us are the booths for individual meditation. Should I bring you into one of those? I could kneel before you there, take you into my mouth, receive your blessing. How much blasphemy do we want to risk committing? I toy with the idea, but for the moment, I simply lean myself back into you, your arms around the front of me, and we stand there, like this, and allow the silence to envelop us. I can hear you breathe, hear your heartbeat; I can feel it against me. I can feel you growing hard as I lean into you, and my breath catches as I feel arousal surge through me, flooding me.
It doesn’t seem to matter how many times we’ve already made love. I can’t seem to get enough of you. If I could, I’d find a way to keep you inside me always.
I’m wearing a summer dress. Sleeveless, backless, just a couple of thin straps criss-crossed across my back, the skirt that falls halfway down my thighs. Your hand is running up my leg now, touching the outside of my knee, my lower thigh, pushing the dress up. You laugh as your hand finds my hip. I’m being my usual summer wanton self. No underwear to get in the way, and your hand strokes my bare ass. I turn around, press my face up to yours, begin to kiss you. I nibble on your lower lip, suck your tongue into my mouth, caress it with my tongue. Your hand is still under my dress; you move your fingers toward my mound. Your other hand cups one of my breasts. I push against you, my body arching to seek the contact. I run my hands up your back, pull you against me. Your hand slips into my wetness, and your fingers against my clit sends a bolt through me. I can feel my legs growing weak beneath me.
I stop us, push you toward the altar. I unbutton your shirt, run my hands over your chest, take one of your nipples into my mouth, bite a little harder than I should just to hear you gasp. My hands are at your belt, tugging at your pants. I pull them down, help you lower yourself so that you’re sitting down on the step of the altar. I kneel between your legs. I’m stroking your penis. I wipe the drop of precum off the tip with my finger, put that finger in my mouth to suck. You’re trying to touch me, but I push your hands away. I’m feeling assertive, want you to be the complete focus of my attention, and if you touch me now, I’ll come. I stroke you gently with my tongue, just a flick of tongue around the head. My hand slides down the shaft and I cup your balls. I draw you further into my mouth, my tongue sliding around you, my hand rising up to meet my mouth, a rhythm of mouth and hand that I know you like. The only sound is our breathing. I hear your breathing change. I want you to come in my mouth, but I also want you inside me, and my greediness wins out. I pull up my dress so that it’s around my waist, crawl up onto your lap. I am so wet. I touch myself, paint your lips with my slippery finger. Slowly, I position you so that you’re right at the entrance to me, and then, when we’re both crazy with want, I lower myself. We are a rocking chair now, and while the moon continues to shine, we rock back and forth, and send our cries out into the lunar silence.