Verano

Verano

Status: In Progress

Genre: Romance

Details

Status: In Progress

Genre: Romance

Summary

Two lovers overcome the angst they've felt all summer, waiting for a relationship to blossom in the restaurant they both work in. On the last night before the Fall solstice, they find themselves together at last...

Summary

Two lovers overcome the angst they've felt all summer, waiting for a relationship to blossom in the restaurant they both work in. On the last night before the Fall solstice, they find themselves together at last...

Content

Submitted: August 13, 2017

A A A | A A A

Content

Submitted: August 13, 2017

A A A

A A A


They both stood, stripped to waist, the coruscating light falling about them both behind the plexiglass screens—artificial fountains of light, bubbled that caught the LED glow in their effervescence. The restaurant was empty, the tables were pushed aside, the carpet beneath them soft and still bearing the swathes and broad swatches from that evening’s vacuuming. The air conditioner soughed like a metallic expiry somewhere in the background. “I’ve never done this before,” she said, her breasts suffused by the light from the fountains. “I haven’t either,” he told her, and stepped forward.

Anticipation, terror, lust, unwhetted appetites built up from a summer of seeing each other, a summer of youthful abandon, a summer of watching, of brushing hips in passing while carrying platters, of touching hands in a playful way, of helping, of fighting, of loving. Of falling into that love, a surge of emotional vertigo. It was like watching a collapse, of some kind—but a collapse of a thing into a greater thing. Not a destructive collapse. And finally, like causality straight from a fantasy, it had culminated in this moment. She was working at the buttons of her black slacks, and he was working at the zipper of his. They stripped for one another. And now, they were down to their underwear, lithe bodies bared to one another, a strip-tease where they both were undressing, looking up and smiling to gauge one another’s reaction to their nakedness. All the events which led them up to this moment had left them—all the reasons, all the incidents. All of life beyond the room in which they both were standing was washed away in a tidal ebb of unbridled emotion and wild passion. “Not my first time…” She whispered and winked, playful with her sexual taunts. “Sure as hell not my second time…” he retorted and walked over to her in his underwear, while she hooked her fingers in her panties and began to slide them down over her thighs, her hands rasping on her skin, the sudden appearance of her pubis bringing him to a fresh level of excitement.

He knew what he’d wanted, but he didn’t know that the getting of the thing that he wanted would elicit such feeling. He knelt down in front of her, their clothes now just crumpled dark mounds on the carpet around them. He ran his nose along her belly button, his hands along her body, feeling of her buttocks beneath the palms of his hands. Her scent came to him—organic, secret, overwhelming him with its fragrance. Her perfume mingled with her more animal smells and he caught whiffs of both. Her femininity coupled with raw sexuality. She gingerly placed her hand on the back of his head—not quite urging, but guiding him downward. Then inward. Deeper. Drawing him into her as he buried his face in the curls of her pubic hair, felt them against the bristle of his beard stubble. Her breasts hung above him, those nipples that he had suckled just moments ago still erect, the memory of his mouth still keeping them perked. She caught him staring at her breasts as he nuzzled her pubis, locked eyes with him, parted her lips and whispered, “Watch. Then eat me out…” She took and held her breasts upward, deepening her cleavage, rounding them out beneath the soda-bubble chromate fizz of the restaurant fountains. Green, purple, blue and red pulsated softly along the length of her body, his erect penis brushing up against her legs. And, with the grace of someone practiced in self-pleasuring, she pushed each breast upward in turn, bent down and suckled the nipple. His racing pulse made the tip of his cock bounce in time with his heartbeat against her shin. He reached down, stroked it gently as though to soothe its fervor. Obedient to the letter, he listened to what she said—he watched for a while, then she stopped, letting each breast rest. She gave him a nod, a wink and subtle gesture to go ahead…to proceed. She spread her legs, and her wetness was apparent to him as he moved his hands along her inner thighs, parted her lips and began to lap. His tongue flicked out between his lips, touched on her clitoris, ran around the little nub of it, traveled downward to where her depths truly began—like wading out from the shallows to swim in the ocean. Here, his tongue could touch nothing but the insides of her lips—there was no bottom. He’d have to use something more…extensive to probe those depths. She rolled her body above him, swung her head around, combed his hair with her fingers, clawed at his shoulders with her nails. Her heavy breathing descended into a series of rapid pants. Her nails dug deeper. His grip on her ass tightened. She gyrated slightly, bringing her hips forward to meet his tongue, He was aware of the piles of the carpet beneath his bare knees. He was suffocating in her loveliness, half-starved of her love, half-mad with that passion she seemed to infuse in him with every slight thrust forward. And just as her arousal heightened to frenzy, she stopped him, nudging him backward. “You’ve gotta go deep, now…” she commanded, “Go deep and don’t let up until you’ve filled me up…” She stepped backward, knelt down on the carpet, then sat and leaned back. Her knees were pointed towards the ceiling, her legs spread, her labia glistening. He approached, the starvation of long hours wanting her, dreaming, fantasizing, stroking himself to the idea of her—all of that evaporating away. Here she was. Here he was. He would no longer be hungry. He came up between her legs, his penis almost hard and erect enough to touch his stomach. His shaft ached—a literal ache that began as a throb the second she had unbuttoned her top. He slid his body atop hers, felt her breasts, ran his mouth around each one. As though there was a natural order to it—and, indeed, there was—he tilted his hips, grabbed her ass and brought it up slightly, then made the plunge to infinite warmth and depth. Her vagina hugged his cock tightly, grasped it so that he craved for her to grasp it even more. The first thrust moved her upward, sliding her across the carpet. She groaned. Tried in vain to hold herself steady, digging her fingers into the carpet. He encircled her shoulders with his right arm but did not let go of her ass. His left hand held it firmly, spreading her so that he could feel her all the way up his shaft. The knuckles of the hand that held her buttocks ground into the floor—but he didn’t care. All else—even pain—was secondary to the urge to be inside of her. Her hair fell in a fan behind her head. The tables and chairs held shadows that watched them, the fountain-light falling across his back and her face. He watched her eyes shut tight, then open and their gazes met. No embarrassment, no regret, no disgust. Just longing for one another.

“I’ll come if you don’t stop…” she wheezed, the panting and the excitement having left her breathless, “So don’t you fucking dare…” He felt the precursors to her orgasm—the tightening, the sudden wetness, the slow undulations that would increase in rapidity, faster and faster until…until…and then, she did come. She came first and elation flooded him. She clawed at his chest, rolled her head from side to side, arched her back so that her upper body levitated there above the carpet. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to hold it in long enough to pleasure her. He wasn’t sure that there had been enough foreplay. But, then he realized the entire summer had been one long, slow foreplay. All the seemingly thoughtless incidences of contact between them. That time she’d came to him as he stood by the stainless steel sink, depositing dishes one-by-one into the water, her breasts against his back. “Fuck me till you squirt,” she told him levelly. His hips seemed to take on a rhythm, seemed to fall into sync with the swelling of pleasure that each thrust inward made, and the subsidence of pleasure that each pull outward made. All the euphemisms for sexual penetration—plowing, pounding, shucking—none of it seemed to adequately encapsulate the sensation itself, the experience, the movement, the tension, the feeling. Perhaps that’s why some guys he knew were never sexually satisfied to the fullest—because they didn’t see the beauty of it. They didn’t understand that it wasn’t a vulgar act—it was a coupling. A sharing. An exchange. A charged-up, shook-up, unbottled wash of feelings and spiritual energy that nothing could really adequately explain. A Heisenberg uncertainty of emotion and understanding that could not be directly measured without changing the experience itself. So, he thrust. And he thrust. And he became that sexual machine that, at its core, was a human soul. When he came, he felt her lips part around his shaft as the force of his ejaculate dribbled down out of her.

It was not like when he was a boy and masturbated to magazines. After the climax, they lay together on the floor in an embrace. “The summer’s up,” she told him, “Weather’s getting cool and tomorrow is the first day of autumn…” He nodded, buried his nose in her hair and inhaled. “I know,” he told her, “But we don’t have to be over. We don’t have to be over at all…” 


© Copyright 2017 Aurora M. Soleado. All rights reserved.

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