That was a good night. I remember slowly unzipping her dress, feeling the silk strap of her push-up bra, with a subtle smooth texture that makes me throb. All erotic things ultimately become erotic because they remind you of that profound moment of entry, that smooth, unified feeling of reaching the bottom of all human ecstasy. Anything that resembles it provokes a repetitive relay of that sensation. Her nipples were a little more erect, poking through the thin layer of bra that I was about to shed for her. I kissed her neck, licked it, making some small dent of red marks.
The foreplay wasn't very long. I massaged her beasts with both of my hands as she put her hands in between my legs--that uncomfortable feeling of my khaki pants holding my expanding trunks in place, constricting its imminent aggression, how can I forget? I undid my belt buckles. That belt I still have, a thick brown one, a bit dressy and exposing my anxiety about the date in plain sight. I pulled down my pants and my underwear to my ankles, and my penis made that subtle skipping motion, at least that's how I'd like to recall it.
I remember that patch of water, the wetness, a dirty puddle, because I laid her on it. It was somewhere between a grab and a push, and she was so little and fragile, powerless to me, and I felt guilty about it. I rolled up her dress and pulled down her little panties, the color of which I've forgotten. I remember slowly going down on her, and inspected her for any signs of STDs. As I said, I have always been cautious. To my surprise, it was beautiful and had only a vague scent of woman-ness, which is a scent that always turns me on, though perhaps not appetizing to everyone, a mixture of smell of sweat, vaginal fluids and urine. She kept it clean and pink, and she was getting swollen and wet, absolving my worry that we would need to get additional lubrication.
As I slowly licked her clitoris, she moaned deliberately, started twisting her own nipples with her thumbs and index fingers, and closed her eyes. That rare and powerful sound came directly out of the depth of her throat and poured some gas on the flame in my groin. I took my time and let her do her thing and quietly enjoyed feeling my expanding and pulsating self exposed in open air in the cool summer breeze. When I lifted my head I remember seeing some fireflies flickering in the nearby bushes.
"Ah...fuck." I remember yelling out softly as I entered her.
As I moved slowly in and out of her, the tip of my penis started to emanate that strong sensual feeling of pleasure. I felt like I was losing it quickly, my sanity, my reservations, my reason, and I pushed my tongue forcefully down her throat, looking for some solace. Instead I found a certain almost spiritual moment of peace and emergence, as the unstoppable contractions began, and the raspy grunts came out of my throat. I felt my eyeballs rolling back and my ordinary being dying in a sensual bliss.
Of course, when it was over, I felt guilty again, as usual, mostly because as it dripped out of her I saw the evidences of my own lack of discretion. I felt some sadness inside of me welling up, followed quickly by that sense of equanimity. I remember somehow feeling less lonely. I remember thinking, hey if this is what being married is all about, sign me up!