On the First Date

Her hips circled and her torso writhed in time to her moans. He could feel her muscles moving with the two fingers he held motionless deep in her sex; he could see her muscles moving behind the smooth luscious curve of her belly as he stroked her clitoris with his thumb. She was trying to say something, trying to form words through the building orgasm. Trying to say...

"Chocolate or vanilla?"

"Umm, uh, sorry?"

She was standing halfway across the room, looking at him quizzically, the strip of bare skin that had launched his fantasy still peeking out between her blouse and her skirt. "I said: chocolate or vanilla? I lured you up here with ice cream, remember? Sometime in a previous life?"

"Oh yeah, yeah, sorry! Chocolate would be great."

"Mmmm," she purred, and instead of going off into the kitchen she stepped quickly up to him and kissed him on the cheek. He breathed in the smell of her, saw himself taking her face in his hands, crushing her mouth under his, pressing himself against her warm and willing body, between her yearning thighs...

"You," she said, having stepped away from him to stand, one hand on a hip, her head to one side, "are either the shyest guy I've ever met, or you just don't like me."

"I like you!" he said, too loudly, "I really like you! A lot!"

Her smile broadened. "Good!" And she went into the kitchen. He was still trying to decide whether to follow her and help (but would it be insulting to suggest that she couldn't get two dishes of ice cream by herself? Or would it be sexist to just sit and wait for her to serve him? Or?), when she came back with two bowls of dark chocolate bliss.

Sitting in the armchair opposite her, he managed to relax a little. They talked about the weather, a movie they'd both seen, and then about classic Asian films, something it turned out they both had a passion for. Without noticing, he got up from his chair and sat next to her on the couch, talking intensely.

Then somehow he was talking about himself, telling her about his childhood, about being lonely, about moving to a new city. And they got a little quieter, and he found himself just looking at her, and thinking how absolutely beautiful she was. She touched his face and smiled, and her mouth was very close.

He kissed her softly and she responded. He kissed her more firmly, and her lips opened. Her tongue running gently over his teeth ignited something in him, and they were kissing hot and hungry, their hands stroking each other's clothes, her legs opening and his body pressed against hers. She was on her back on the couch with her skirt up around her hips and his hands on the warm softnesses of her chest when he stopped suddenly. This was, he realized, actually happening. In real life.

Her eyes, which had been half-closed in dreamy lust, opened, and she smiled into his face. "Don't stop, Tiger," she breathed, "I love it." She rocked her hips, pushing her pelvis against him, and he collapsed back into her arms, his mouth hungry again on hers.

Then she was rolling him off of her, onto his back on the deep carpet, kissing his face and unbuttoning his shirt. He tried to undo her blouse at the same time, and their arms got tangled. They laughed (he marveled again at the loveliness of her face) and sat up, and helped each other out of their tops, and he stroked and cupped and kissed her small perfect breasts. She moaned and pushed him down again, and undid his pants.

My God, he thought, My God thank you.

From somewhere ("I was a Girl Scout," she told him later, "always prepared") she took a small silver packet, tore it open, and slid the condom down over his erection with warm caressing fingers. He pulled her onto him and slipped her panties down toward her ankles. His hands moved greedily over the indescribable softness of her skin.

"You're so cute," she whispered into his ear, and she opened her legs, and took his penis in her hand and guided it inside herself. "Ohhh," she breathed, "ohh that's nice."

And it was nice, it was very nice. He had to struggle not to lose himself entirely in the niceness, to keep his eyes open, to keep his hands live and moving on her back and her bottom. She kissed him deeply on the mouth. "Don't worry," she whispered, moaned, her head now by his shoulder and her hips moving, "don't worry if you ahhhh if you come first. I have a really long fuse. It feels oooooh feels really good."

He didn't want to come first. He tried not to think of sexy things, tried not to think of how her breasts felt pressed against his chest, not to think of the neat and fine-furred mouth of her vagina sliding up and down around his penis (his aching staff, his pulsing rod), not to think of the ecstatic sound of her breath by his cheek, not to think of her thighs and legs and the creamy swell of her bottom under his palms, his flesh inside her body, her self moaning and gasping on top of him.

Filled with not thinking of these things, he came all too soon, thrusting wildly up into her and groaning desperately into her ear as waves of pleasure coursed through his traitorous body, and his arms crushed her against him. With an enormous sigh, he lay back with his eyes closed, unable or unwilling to move, his penis limp and sliding out of the hot center of her.

She pulled the condom gently off of him, tossed it into a wastebasket, and planted a small kiss on his wet and gleaming glans. He opened his eyes and got up on one elbow. She was rapturously lovely, smiling into his face, her body flushed. But, he thought, unsated.

"Do you know," he asked, touching her bare shoulder, "what I was thinking about, when you asked me what flavor ice cream I wanted, and I didn't hear you?"

"What," she said, gasping a little as his hand moved lower, stroking her stiff pink nipples on its way down, "were you thinking about?"

His fingers ran gently down over the smooth luscious curve of her belly.

"I'll show you," he said.