Let Me Count the Ways

Her night had been satisfying and not. She was glad to be there for her friends, glad they knew they could call on her for a listening ear, glad to simply be available. But she would have really enjoyed something a bit more intimate. Not with who she'd been with for most of the evening, but with someone. She was at that point where giving of herself had her wanting more.

He called a few minutes past midnight.

"Are you in bed?"

"No, not yet. What are you doing?"

"Inviting you over. Now. I'll text the room number. Use the valet."

"I'll be there."

She rarely saw him these days. Once close friends, then lovers, then angry, and now back to occasional trysts when they both happened to be in town at the same time, they had experienced their first three-way together. She was pretty sure that they weren't going to be alone tonight either.

They weren't.

She was still smiling at the smiles on the faces of the parking attendant and hotel staff when they saw her trying to find the elevator at such a late hour. Knowing they knew what she was there for amused her.

She found the room and knocked. He peeked around the door.

"Come in. Take your clothes off here," and he pointed to the two piles already there. He even began to help her -- not his usual style -- and squeezed in a passionate kiss that let her know that while he had a drink or two already her thirst would have to be satisfied in other ways. There was an urgency.

"Who's around the corner?" she asked.

He wouldn't answer. But instead led her into the bedroom where a gorgeous, young black woman lay against the white sheets with a half sleepy smile (post-something she was sure) on her face and no a stitch of clothing or even a sheet anywhere near her.

"Hi," she said and the previous resident simply smiled bigger.

They climbed on the bed. He began directing. And initially, used her name then switched to initials. Whoever was in the bed would never be called by name and she could tell he wished he'd never used hers.

Control was very important here. She laughed at the thought because "out of control" would be what anyone watching would have called it.

She knew she had some years on this woman. At one point she caught her reflection in the full lenght mirror on the hotel wall. She wasn't please but she didn't cringe. She was simply a less-than-svelte-white-woman-willing-to-put-her-post-40s-body-out-there. The Younger seemed to have no problem with it ... no experience either.

He asked if she remembered how to please a woman. She didn't answer. She just began to kiss her way down The Younger -- lips which were full and pouty but smiling now, chin with just the slightest indentation. The Younger murmured her pleasure at the soft kisses she was offering. Making her way down the neck, she took time to truly examine The Younger's breasts. They were not as large as her own but they were definitely significant. And the dark circles around the dark nipples looked lucious. She tasted and discovered they indeed were and that The Younger had been waiting for just such a taste. Her murmured pleasure was a tad louder this time.

As she made her way down the flattened stomach, he was positioning himself behind her. His fingers had found their way to her pussy and were beginning to delight her. She warmed to him enough to forgive the mystery of the invite, the veil he was holding over their identities, the control he so obviously delighted in. If he kept up what he was doing, she might forgive him a few more things.

She realized concentration was lapsing so she decided to dive in and focus. She noted The Younger shaved about as much as she did and liked the smoothness and the fuzzy hair that remained. She laughed silently, remembering a lesbian friend's acknowledgement that she herself enjoyed a bit of a "landing strip."

"Guess I do too," she thought.

She lightly licked in one swooping motion taking in labia and clit. Then began the tickle that she found so pleasing. Again, The Younger registered approval. Her tongue took The Younger to the edge but neither she, The Younger, or he was ready for anything too much too soon so she paused and that pause gave him just enough time to bring her to her first orgasm.

"I'm a multiple," she smiled and softly whispered to The Younger after the initial shudders ceased.

The Younger was now instructed in some manner but the detaisl weren't audible to her and anyway, she was concentrating on the cock that now loomed to her left. The Younger was at right. Both women had their hands fixed upon the erect penis. Each stroking in their unique fashion. She watched to see if she could pick up any pointers but the moves were familiar so she let The Younger take it in her mouth while she simultaneously stroked the shaft and fingered The Younger.

Soon she was aware of the contractions of The Younger's vagina. She realized that she now knew a bit more about what a cock might experience but this time not in theory but from an "insider's" perspective. The tightness intrigued her.

After a while, The Younger was instructed to share and she did. She also mounted the now sucking other from behind, cupping her breasts and moving in rhythm with the dips and dives she was making as she deep throated him for several seconds.

He was loving it but still concerned with control and encouraged both women to move upward. He wanted kisses -- to see and to experience. All three began to share the same space and whose tongue was pleasuring whose no longer mattered. Lips were wet and wild and wandering. For a few moments, they were all kissing each other at the same time. The description of the moment couldn't convey the incredible chemistry that was flowing.

After a while, and several more orgasms on her part, she determined to let the couple play a while. But they would have none of it. Three or nothing seemed to be the theme. So she mounted The Younger as she played on top of him and rode with them as he moved himself in and out of her.

At one point, she cupped the perfectly heart-shaped ass in her hands and silently voiced her appreciation. A thing of beauty with its tight skin on curved pillows and ready and willing to be explored.

When he began to more vigourously take The Younger in by mouth, she came. And yet he didn't stop. The Younger pointed out that she wasn't a multiple. While he softened his tactics, he didn't stop and soon a multiple is just what she became.

Watching and massaging thighs, backs and asses was plenty at the moment but soon she was back in the action again at his insistance. He wanted her to mount him and The Younger to watch. The women complied. And the ride got wilder and fiercer with The Younger caressing and holding tightly to her mentor's hands as waves of pleasure overwhelmed her. Then he came with pounding precision. Then she held tightly for the secondary waves she knew would come her way. They did.

He laughed. The Younger almost seemed to sleep but she was still watching him. Soon he snored slightly.

She decided she was ready to go and kissed both on the forehead before making her exit.

"Pleasure tonight. Work tomorrow. You guys enjoy the rest of the evening."

The night watchman was no one in sight but the valet looked slightly perplexed that her visit had lasted until morning.

She smiled and tipped him before she drove away.

"Should have given him their room number with my compliments," she thought. Then it hit her. She NEVER got The Younger's name.

"Now that will make a most interesting story," she giggled.

Buddies

She wonders if the most seductive thing about him is the fact that she just doesn’t give a shit.

Her former self would be mortified. No question. But her former self tried to be “happily married” for a couple of decades and that script ended with sexual frustration and a let’s-just-split-it-all-down-the-middle divorce.

The “self” that emerged was pleased with how she’d come to relish her independence and how now she actually did ... come that is. (At this point, yes, dear reader a certain amount of sympathy may be in order - or at least some understanding for what follows - because one of the reasons "happily" is in quotes is that without her own devices, orgasms were not part of the marriage contract.)

Initially, she embraced the idea of dating. Convinced that there would be no second marriage, she made it known to friends that she was ready to be wined and dined but not searching for Mr. Right. Unfortunately, most of those friends were either gay or in marriages similar to the one she’d exited. In other words, one set knew few available and straight and the other set were oblivious to the fact that she simply wanted a good fuck and consequently, kept searching for someone “good enough” for her.

A few did keep their eyes open though. And leave to the gay guys to understand.

“He’s beautiful,” she was told. “And he’s just like you and I like them – bald and black.”

“I KNEW cruising those bars with you and pointing out the goodies was going to come in handy. Thank you so much for listening.”

She’d called the number he gave her with only slight trepidation. She made the coffee date with a little less. By the first meeting, she was truly open to almost any outcome.

That was a few weeks ago. They now had a routine that worked for both of them. When one of them wanted the other, a simple text sufficed: watcha up 2?

Tonight, he was heading to her place. She’d had a glass of wine. She knew he’d bring something to smoke. That was his thing. She liked watching him go from pseudo upright and respectable to mellow and hungry. She especially liked the hunger part.

When he arrived, he smiled at the sight of her. She liked wearing something just short of a costume when he was there. Sometimes it was her school girl ensemble -- short skirt, white top, heels that looked like grown up Mary Janes. Sometimes she went with office wear -- as in, she wore a shirt he was most likely to wear at the office and nothing more. Tonight was casual so she opted for the denim shirt she'd borrowed once from his place and never returned -- and not another stitch.

He was wearing his usual white. The contrast of the linen cloth bleached to perfection against his coffee bean colored skin never failed to take her breath away. There was no denying that he was gorgeous. She was pretty sure the only reason he was in this -- other than fantastic sex -- was the contrast of characters. She was about as white as she could be save for a few freckles. She was also from another world -- the suburbs and church meetings. While he was all urban, all the time.

Small talk was beyond their expectations these days. They usually mustered a sincere "how are you?" and a little less sincere "really?" when the reply was uttered. Sincerity left the building if much more was forthcoming and soon enough they were making their way to the bedroom.

She had their jazz station playing softly in the background. Candles were lit for her pleasure. He didn't require atmosphere.

"How about a massage?" she asked but already had the oil on her hands as she did so.

"You know the answer is always yes so why do you ask?"

"The illusion of conversation can sometimes be considered foreplay," she laughed since she knew the bullshit she was uttering wasn't going to fly.

He chuckled as he removed his shirt to reveal the massive arms and chest that often mesmerized her. She could suck on his nipples for what seemed like a lifetime if she also played with the hairs of his chest and rubbed deeply into his upper arms.

With grace and fluidity, he was sans pants and underwear. Standing before her without the slightest bit of self consciousness, he grinned.

"Want to enjoy the show a little longer or shall I get comfortable on the bed?"

"Face down if you please."

He complied and she smiled at the lyrics coming into her audible focus. A new singer she'd just heard a few weeks before was admonishing, "Sure I know we're going no where. But one more time let's go there. So lay down beside me."

"Yep," she thought. "Let's go there."

She started with his feet, oiling him up and almost salivating at the shiny beauty forthcoming. She moved up his calves with smooth strokes. While she knew this massages wasn't expected to be like the ones she gave her clients, she still felt she had a professional quality to uphold ... at least until she got to his ass.

His cheeks were rock hard or as close as the physical body can be to it. She took two hands to grab one, squeezed and allowed her pinky finger to "accidentally" slip into the crack. She moved to the second cheek and pushed and prodded until he let forth just a tiny moan. That's when she stroked his balls ever so slightly and made her way further up his torso.

Her technique was simple -- first the palm up and down the spine and around the shoulders and back again, then the same route with the knuckles of her fist, then back to the palms and then back to the fists. Ultimately she would "wake him up" with some karate chops offered rapidly and vigorously for several minutes, followed by her fingernails scratching gently around the same territory.

After a few pulls on the shoulder muscles -- which she reached only by mounting his ass so that her pussy tickled him in the process -- she was ready to turn him over.

He wanted to reach for her when he saw her now open shirt exposing her breasts as she applied the oil first to her hands and then across his chest. But he knew better. More was to come and he was perfectly happy to wait.

She worked the same routine on his chest as she had on his back except for the pounding of course and then she began to shift her body downward. On her knees, she bent her head to swipe her hair across his now very alert nipples and downward toward his stomach and navel. She allowed her cheek to barely scrape the hairs of his chest. She loved that sensation of touching without touching.

Then she was eye to eye with his glorious penis -- erect and ready to be massaged as well.

She first locked her hands around the base and pulsed. His eyes were closed now and she was mostly responding to the shifts in his weight to indicate pleasure or pain. They didn't do pain but they also enjoyed the occasional "oh-make-it-hurt-so-good" activity that comes when folks work with their hands.

She felt almost hungry herself at this point and took a lick of the slightly oozing cock's tip. She pushed her tongue a little lower and with back and forth swipes felt each vein. At the base she sucked in his balls -- ever so gently.

This time his moan was loud and clear.

She worked her way back up his cock and, placing soft lips against the head, massaged her way down, inch by inch by inch by inch by inch by inch. Pushing him to the side of her mouth, she was able to take in just the last bit before her throat closed up. But as soon as she had come up for air she was down again. Up and down, up and down along the shaft. Her mouth and his pre cum was providing the only lubricant she needed to make this ride an easy one. She was in a yoga's child pose on his left and then decided to take a trip around his world by repositioning herself several times as she sucked and tugged and licked his ever growing dick. She moved to between his legs for a whole new sensation for the both of them, though the action remained constant. At his right she switched to rapid fire thrusts all the way down and up again, practically tickling her throat in the process.

His breathing was shifting and a few "ah fuck"s had already been uttered. She toyed with the idea of him coming in her mouth but instead, she raised her head and took in a good long breath.

"My turn," was his response as he grabbed her by the shoulders and pushed her sideways across the bed. Her legs dangled off the side and he was soon standing before her with both his hands clasping her her tits while his thumb and forefinger pinched each nipple.

He bent down and moved one hand to open up her legs. His tongue found her clit with no effort. First he tickled. Then he licked and soon he was sucking. After a while, she no longer knew exactly what he was doing but she knew he was doing it very ... very ... very ... well.

When he entered her, he continued toying her clit and she had her first orgasm as soon as he was only an inch or so inside. He knew that was only the beginning so he pushed in and out, in and out and watched her smile as the initial shudder calmed.

On cue, his thrusts became tighter, closer and soon the pounding began. She wanted to scream but also wanted to keep it all contained on this night. So she grabbed a pillow and stifled the sound.

When he paused she squeezed her satisfaction tightly around his now juice laden cocked. He smiled again.

Grabbing her leg, he threw her foot upon his shoulder and the slight shift changed every point of contact until she was once again nearing a frenzied orgasm. He pulled out and turned her over.

"Oh my god ..." was the last discernible utterance she could muster.

He pushed in slowly and yet again new sensatiions flooded her. She was aware of every inch of him as he slowly moved in and out. She wanted to do something to show her pleasure and yet could only moan.

When he began the pounding this time, she knew it was his last round. She felt the throbs before he began his mantra.

"Yes, yes, yes, motherfucker, yes." And with every "yes" she felt his juices exploding within her.

He knew not to move. She ground her ass into his thighs and waited. First one throb and then she matched it. Another and a matching one on her part. Soon she was making the high pitch "yes" of her own that signaled the after burn had accomplished its purpose.

Multiple orgasms were such a lovely thing.

They laid beside each other for only a short while before she was on her elbow and tracing her hand across the tops of the hairs on his chest and arms. He knew that she was satisfied with the soft touch for at least a little while. Then she'd make her way down him once again.

They usually lasted three rounds. Tonight felt no different.

He took a deep breath and noticed she was already at his waist.

A Southerner in the Kitchen

She hadn't thought of honeysuckle in years. Then a couple of weeks ago she saw it growing by the roadside, along the fence, she couldn't seem to let go of the image completely. When he asked if he could see her tonight, the sweet, cool, wetness she'd tasted all those years before when she and her brothers played in the woods and took the nectar as their reward for "roughing" it, was once again on her mind.

She wondered if this would be a honeysuckle evening.

The heat was reminiscient of those long ago days when she ran free, skin caramelized by the sun and with hair suggestive of the whipped cream they often put on fresh capped strawberries. That freedom, skin and hair would be nice to conjure up once again. She knew he'd like it. He had a taste for the sweet stuff.

But she would make do with what she had. In the kitchen and in life, she could be rather creative with the right ingredients. Though she no longer possessed the blonde curls and she protected her now freckled face with heavy duty SPF, she knew that her willingness to venture beyond the norm was exactly what was called for this hot summer night.

Her skin seemed to almost sizzle as she extracated herself from the car. That gave her an idea.

When he arrived at her door, she called out that it was open and he should come on in. The room was dark and eerily quiet except for the whirrrr of the fan in the corner. Beside the fan, an ice bucket sat in a shallow puddle and an open bottle of white wine peeked from the melting ice.

He called her name. Then he noticed the aroma.

"Are you baking something?"

"I am," she said with the heaviest Southern drawl she could muster. "You come right on in here, you hear."

He walked toward the kitchen with curiosity tinged with apprehension. He'd been benefactor and victim of her creative scenarios before and while he relished them, he was also slightly afraid.

She stood barefoot on the white tile. She wore a calico apron that looked like it belonged in Mayberry but she was no Aunt Bea ... for the apron and a pair of white panties were all she donned. He laughed.

She faked a frown. "Are you not in the mood for my biscuits and strawberries?" The accent was getting even thicker.

"Oh yes, I am mah dear," he tried his best Rhett Butler.

She walked toward him and quickly took his ear lobe in her mouth, sucking and pulling at the same time.

"I could just eat you up," she taunted. "But first we have dessert. Then the main course."

She led him to a picnic blanket he hadn't noticed when he arrived. It was spread before the fireplace which was sans wood and filled with yet another ice chest. Inside were fresh strawberries, cans of whipped cream (the kind with which one can make the oh-so-cute-designs), chocolate bars, pints of ice cream, chocolate sauce, nuts, sprinkles, and a honey jar.

"Please, do get comfortable, kind sir," she teased as she pushed him toward the floor and grabbed at the pillows on the couch to somewhat soften his "fall."

"I'm thinking a cool, refreshing beverage might be in order," she motioned at the ice bucket. That's when he noticed the label was his favorite (and most expensive). He tried not to grab the bottle too greedily as he poured two glasses.

She was focused on the cooling goodies. She quietly took her drink and a long sip, seemingly studying her next move.

"I think that chocolate is in order."

She unwrapped the dark morsel and placed a piece between her lips. She moved toward him with determination and rubbed the candy across his lips. He bit. She sucked his lips as he took in the sweet. And, without his notice, she reached for a strawberry behind her and popped it into his mouth before the chocolate could completely melt.

"This ain't no Hershey's kiss!" As she played out the scene, she moved from Southern to country rather quickly he noticed.

"Please feel free to please your palate in any way you see fit," she motioned to the array. "I'm needed in the kitchen."

When she returned, the buttered biscuits were toppling off the plate she held in one hand. The other hand grabbed for the honey as she lowered herself onto his lap. He noticed the panties were now gone.

"Bet you didn't know what a girl could do with a little bit of flour and milk, huh?" she said as she fed him the now dripping biscuit.

"Don't I get the honey?" he queried.

"No, I do."

She placed the plate down. She had also untied the apron strings from around her neck and placed her cool breasts against his chest. (His shirt had somehow mysteriously disappeared when she was in the kitchen.)

She licked her way down his front and paused only momentarily at his waist as she unloosened his belt and tugged at his pants.

When he was gloriously exposed, she stared and sighed.

"Ah ... sweet mystery of life ..."

He was getting harder with each Southern drenched syllable she offered.

When she placed just a drop of honey on her finger and stroked his lips, he grinned with a young man's delight.

She placed yet another drop on his finger and licked slowly to remove it ... sucking a little longer than was needed on his fingertip.

Then her eyes went once again to the dessert she'd been thinking of throughout the day.

She poured just a trickle of honey on his now hard cock. She licked lightly. The taste of his own juices mixed in and "sweet and savory" took on a whole new meaning.

She went first to the base of his dick to catch the running sweetness and to suck teasingly and only briefly on his balls. Then she worked her way up, deftly rubbing her tongue along the shaft, back and forth, back and forth, removing all evidence of the golden elixir.

When she got to the tip, she softly pushed her lips down, down, down. He gasped as he realized she had fashioned another routine. He never knew quite what to expect when she was in one of her "come here, I'll go down, you behave" moods. He liked this Southern fried variation.

She picked up the pace. She was moving up and down his dick with cheerleader like enthusiasm. Her hair tickled his navel as she switched from side to side, drenching his pulsing cock first on the left, then the right with her saliva, wetting him to make it even easier to both massage with one hand and work her mouth along every glorious inch of him.

He seemed almost thicker to her tonight. Tempting her to ask for his growing presence in her pussy, the throbbing thickness only distracted her for a moment. She had no intention of straying from her plan now.

She worked herself into almost a frenzy with the sucking, licking, rubbing, and grabbing. She wanted him all. She wanted him deep. She wanted him now.

Soon, she had all she wanted and more.

"Fuck, oh, fuck, oh yes."

And the sweet taste of honeysuckle was hers once again. Shooting into her mouth with more volume and tenacity than any blossom had ever put forth.

"Ah ... now that's the Southern way," she said as she smiled and wondered what they might find to do with all that whipped cream.

Evolution of a Southern Soul

A good Southern girl knows you don't embarrass your momma or your momma's people (except maybe the one crazy aunt who I'd love to watch read every single word of this just to capture the looks of astonishment-turned-horror-turned-righteous-indignation).

But frankly I'm no longer a good Southern girl.

As to when exactly one stops being a Southern "girl" -- well, pretty much when she's damn good and ready. And the "good" part? that changes definition in time.

I was good at 12 because I didn't smoke or drink.

I was good at 16 because I had only smoked once, only drank at sleepovers (and was usually the one saying how we shouldn't and we'd be caught) and I wasn't screwing any boys. They did enjoy a touch of my breasts now and then, because yes, I have BREASTS. But the boys knew everything lower was off limits. Unless I really was curious but that's another story.

I was good at 24 because technically speaking I was a virgin bride (in other words no one had penetrated so I could still say I didn't screw around).

I was good at 35 because I could work all day, prepare quite a feast if I wanted to and we had the stuff to make biscuits, and still have the energy for a blow job. ('Course he didn't want one but that's yet another story.)

"Good" -- it's all about perspective.

Now four decades into all this and I'm not sure what "good" looks like in this strange place --
-divorced . . . so the church is less than thrilled with me and I work for them
-alone . . . so no "jobs" of any kind
-surrounded by friends . . . who have lives of their own
-haunted by what-ifs and should-have-beens

I'd love to be a brassy broad and strike off on some barely visible path to adventures unfathomable in my previous life.

I wonder if I shouldn't pursue the life of the saintly woman bestowing good will and wishes on all who encounter her.

But I can't recant my heritage. I'm supposed to be a good Southern girl --
-pragmatic and proud
-sensitive and sweet
-selfless and caring
-thoughtful and silently thought-filled

Who am I kidding?

Not happening.

So where does that leave me.

A person?

That would please the fem fatales who clamor to reclaim language.

But I'm too proud of what's not between my legs and too pleased that my chest -- if not my step -- retains its bounce. (I did mention that I had BREASTS, right?)

I don't want to simply be a "person."

And I love the warmth, humor and heaviness of the South that we wear like a favorite old coat (if it actually ever gets cold enough to build a relationship with a coat). Something inside me is secretly refreshed when once again the shroud of guilt covers me.

Perhaps I should just adjust. Perhaps the good Southern girl is now ready to be a great Southern woman.

Sex in the Suburbs

She had been enjoying "save the horse, ride the cowboy" for more than a year. She never thought she liked country music. That was before she came . . . in his arms . . . in his bed . . . with twanging providing the soundtrack.

"O my god!" with steel guitars accompanying . . . it was a whole new form of music appreciation.

The opportunities were rare though. He traveled. She traveled. He had two grown sons and he was still trying to compensate for supposedly screwing up their family life when he divorced his cheating wife some years before.

She didn't mind the sporadic nature of their hook ups. Her life was filled with friends and activities that stimulated and challenged her.

But when they did get to "check each other for ticks" (can you believe that's an actual line in a song?), they did a thorough job.

Tonight was no exception.

She knocked on the door this particular Saturday night wondering if he would be his usual eager self or if the weekend might be taking its toil on him. The proverbial candle burned at both ends and in the middle when he was in manic mode. Of late, that was his perpetual state. He met her at the door to his ranch style home in the suburbs (took her a couple of months to truly forgive him that fact since she was all about downtown and its restaurants, theaters and diversity).

He opened the door and his eyes took her in ... the tossled hair from the convertible ride got a nod, the freckled face touched by recent sun received a more aggressive affirmation, but the neckline that was dipping well into the D cups made him open the door that much wider.

"Hmm ... mmm ... mmm."

"Missed you too," she smiled and determined that small talk wasn't really appropriate.

She didn't mind. Fuck buddies with few demands and somewhat negotiable schedules were few and far between. She'd take manic over meaningful if it meant she came multiple times in one setting. With him, it was guaranteed.

Now in the entry way, less than an inch from him, she drank in the silence. No words. No touching. Just awareness of space and possibilities. She loved this moment. Anticipation.

Slightly turning her head as she closed her eyes, she inhaled, relishing the smell of him. He'd been cooking and the onion and garlic would taste good on whatever ... but definitely later. His cologne always pleased her -- not too Old Spice and not too I-couldn't-afford-to-shop-for-it either. A man smell -- clean and suggestive of power.

Her hair brushed his face and he moved toward kissing her but she turned her head again away from his mouth. She wanted to keep the "distance" just a bit longer. She raised her fingers to his face and traced his features acting the blind woman aching to take in the details.

Gently, she rested her fingertips on his lips.

"I want to take you in my mouth. I want to do it now. Would you like to close the door?"

In one motion, he kissed her fingers, took her hand, led her away from the now closed entrance and to the hot bath he'd already drawn for her.

Surprised, she thanked him by sitting on the tub's edge and unbuckling his belt. She was past making the clothes removal a seduction scene. One pull and his now hard cock was very evident, nicely positioned within reach. Her only confusion was mouth or hand first.

She toyed with the idea of toying. But several fantasies were in need of fulfilling tonight. She went with immediacy. He tasted of salt and sweat and she smiled as she licked her lips and his tip simultaneously.

She had recently discovered the variety of reactions he could muster based on the location of her lips. On the tip, he moaned in anticipation. Down and with a slight pulsing action along the shaft, and he began to enter into the self-absorption-no-one-else-matters-gutteral-noises she couldn't quite name. When she reached the base, he stopped breathing. One suck up and then down with force and he was hers ...

Lather, repeat, rinse. She thought of the shampoo bottle as she repeated the sucking, pulling, pushing, tongue tickles and more from first the left vantage point, then shifting to the right. The water's steam was gone by the time she got to his balls but a mouthful and she really didn't care. Things could heat up with little effort, right? At least, he could.

She wondered if he noticed the different reactions he produced. She tested her theory. First the tip again. No lips. Just tongue on tip. He sucked in the air in surprise. Hmmm... maybe he did notice? Now the shaft, but this time she used her finger and the wetness her kisses had created to make the massage that much easier. He smiled but kept his eyes closed. Wonder where he is? she thought.

One more dive to the base in a single motion and he almost came.

"In my mouth?"

"May I?"

She knew it would taste of spearmint and thought the refreshment was overdue. So she stayed put and placed her mouth back in familiar territory. A squeeze of the balls. A rub with the hands. And deep, deep throat and he was in the land of the "oh yes, fucking yes" inaudibles.

She felt him grow and the spill was as she knew it would be -- strong and warm and somehow tasty. She always laughed silently at memories of Sex and the City and Samantha's encounter with funky spunk.

He shuddered. She waited. He pulled out. She began to undress. And reached for the hot water dial. She wanted to be ready for round two.