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She told me that she was finished with the “sweet and sensitive” men she was meeting. I knew she truthfully meant something else. She was finished with passionless men. Unassertive men. Boring men. “Sweet and sensitive” was just her way of being tactful. She wanted to say the men she was meeting were nice, but unexceptional. They didn’t focus their hunger or urges on her, because they barely had enough of those qualities for their own lives.

“I’m exhausted with their routine,” she said. She didn’t look exhausted though. She looked like she was in the prime of her life. Still on this Thursday night, the restaurant where we sat probably reminded her of all the ordinary things in her life.

I gathered that after days and weeks had passed, and the various men in her orbit graduated to second and third-date material, she needed something more from them. But she wasn’t getting it. She didn’t want mild or timid kisses, or whatever else followed. Yet that was what she found. Out there in dating-land there was a particular tiredness with life, which was simply masquerading as politeness and sensitivity. Maybe even maturity.

“I need a bit more” – she searched for the word… “I need more Grrrrrr in my life…” She joked, landing on a sound rather than a word. I could see the frustration in her face, and hear it in her voice, though she was smiling as she talked.

I imagined she needed to be muscled. She needed to be taken. She wanted to find that man who had some rare unabashed passion, and would let it overwhelm him… and then her.

“Grrrrr…?” I answered her. I smiled and thought about the way the sound found something wonderful. It cut through the conversation. In fact, I wanted to answer her with my own sound. I wanted to say ‘I have that for you. That muscle. That need. But I have yet to show it to you.’

Instead, we laughed and the subject changed, but still that sound was hanging over the rest of our short time together. On that night, it was just her and myself, and a few other work-friends who sat nearby. We were there at the usual restaurant near the office, sharing drinks and poking at half-eaten appetizers.

I wondered if she could see the way my breathing changed, as she spoke. I wondered if she could see the way my eyes traveled over her. Work-friends necessarily had a social and romantic barrier between them at our company, but all I wanted to do was break down that wall and come crashing into her bedroom late one night.


I tried to bury myself in everything EXCEPT her. I rode my bike on weekends, tiring my legs and resurrecting my lungs. I dusted-off the keyboard to my old piano, and taught myself to play a Brahms Intermezzo. The sheet music had sat there open for years, waiting. I was exasperated at my lack of technical skill, but I warmed as the music began to slowly flow and develop. Later, when I sat in front of the TV, I ordered myself to do push-ups and then chin-ups at every commercial break, and then as days turned into weeks that was all I did as old shows flickered on the screen, resting — breathlessly — as I fought the images of her intruding into my life. My body was changing. Hardening. Finding itself.

It seemed to be helping. At night my fatigue overwhelmed me… I slept calmly; deeply. The visions of her and I together only showing as temporary bursts, which I sometimes managed to disregard.


But that was only until one Thursday night. The same restaurant, the same half-eaten appetizers decorating the table. Somehow that memorable “Grrrrr” still coloring the atmosphere. The difference this time, was that there were more people in attendance.

We had to crowd around the various tables, and once again, she happened to be next to me. Our legs touched and then stayed planted together as we grouped closer to make room for new bahis firmaları arrivals. As the conversation and laughter carried around, I felt the warmth of her body. We all talked work; we talked gossip; we made fun of ourselves and everyone we knew.

But beneath that table she didn’t retrieve her leg — she didn’t move it away, although by then she could have easily done so. It stayed pressed-up against mine. And I kept my leg right there as well, incapable of turning away from the feelings she brought. I felt that “Grrrrr” travel through my body. I imagined the feeling of her skin. The way her legs could wrap around me. The way I could spread her wide, over and over. At the moment, if I wanted to keep her at a distance, it was literally impossible.

I might have done something different. Maybe, if I had consumed one less drink that night, or if I had taken one extra minute to consider my actions, I would have been more mature, more responsible. Instead, I was soon going to risk my job, and I didn’t care…

As we all sat close together talking and laughing (the feeling of her wrecking my mind) I found a cocktail napkin. I found a pen in my jacket pocket, and on that napkin I scribbled a note.

A few associates jokingly berated me for apparently not leaving the office at the office, and having to make a hasty work-note to myself. I answered their query with a lie. I said: “I’m just jotting down something before I forget.”

Instead, I wrote: ‘Grrrrrr.’

With the pen, I scratched out that tempting sound and smiled.

And then below, the words I had fantasized about telling her a thousand times over: ‘Tonight, leave your front door unlocked for me. I want you dressed for sex.’

I acted as if I was putting the note in my pants pocket. I squirmed just a bit in my seat, to underline my supposed action. But instead my hand traveled over her lower-half. I watched the faces and expressions of the others gathered around us; it seemed they hadn’t the slightest idea of my designs.

I found her hand, surreptitiously waiting for my note. For one instant we held hands, like a couple, and then I placed the note squarely in her grasp. I could sense a smile on her lips; I could feel a quiver in my voice as I excused myself, not wanting to waste one moment. “An early day tomorrow, for me…” I suddenly exclaimed.

A chorus of “Boo…! Boo…!” erupted from the assembled crowd, and echoed with laughter. But as I joined-in and admitted my sad existence, I stood up and made to leave the table. I was starring plainly at her. Our eyes met in a new way. The memory of our legs touching and pressed together for that time apparently leaving a mark beyond its superficial meaning. I wondered, in a few hours when I tried her front door, what I would find?


We had a backwards relationship. The dating came after the sex. The conversations we would eventually have together never caught-up to the sounds we made together. The first time my lips were on her body, it wasn’t to kiss her lips (in one of those uncertain first-date moments of questioning) but as I parted her legs to taste her pussy.

At 11:00 pm I found her there in her bedroom. Her front door was indeed unlocked as I tried it. When it swung open I nearly lost my balance. The lights were off in every room, except for a dim glow showing into a hallway, and as I turned I met a different version of a woman I thought I knew.

‘Dressed for sex’ meant an emphasis on sex. My eyes covered her in the half-light, which gave a slight camouflage to the reasons we were here together.

Still, she lay there on her bed, waiting for me and completely nude – aside from a pair of high-heels that decorated her feet. Her hair was romantically flowing over her pillows. Red lipstick suggesting that I consider her mouth at every glance. Her breasts kaçak iddaa available; her pubic hair a dark shade of pure lust. A color of bold, red toenail polish peeking out of the end of her stilettos. That one detail suddenly allowing me to understand her more completely than otherwise; it suddenly seemed everything we had ever exchanged (smiles, little asides, a shared drink one Thursday night) now made sense in a different way.

I stood there, possibly looking more like an animal than a man. I knew I was partly in the shadows. Possibly like a stranger. Silently, I unbuttoned my shirt. I watched her eyes take me in. I unbuckled my belt; I unzipped my pants. She watched, moving slightly on the bed. Whatever moments of modesty and retreat either of us might have felt at the shock of the new were now being overcome by other forces. This was going to happen.

Within seconds I was standing there in her bedroom, stripped down to my boxer shorts, and my cock was threatening to burst through the slight opening in front. Her eyes moved from mine to that opening. It was only then that I realized my supposed escape from her into my bike rides, push-ups, chin-ups (and even Brahms on the piano) had only pushed me closer to her. We didn’t talk, as if speaking would break that mysterious promise between us.


I didn’t plan, and I didn’t think.

I did what I wanted — what I needed.

Those legs, one of which I had felt under that table just hours earlier, and imagined naked beneath my hands, were now being manipulated and forced apart. With a gasp from her, I put my hands on her thighs. I lifted and spread her. Sweet and sensitive never occurred to me. Without words I directed her to open herself, and then I was bringing myself to her. I nuzzled into her pussy, my mouth going straight to her cunt. It sent a shiver through my mind. Those stripper-heels on the ends of her legs suggesting this was exactly what her body was made for — one of those many alluded-to needs restlessly waiting behind that “Grrrr.”

I had broached her border. I tasted her juices and the heat of her pussy radiated out and into my mouth. I kissed her at that most private and needful place, feeling her insides with my tongue and yearning to hear her moan, as she made that breathless-sound over and over. With each lick of her, with each motion from her body that asked for “more” (her hands running through my hair and subtly asking I stay right there) my cock grew and simply obsessed her. My hands ran along her body, learning her shape, and as I finally cupped her breasts, ecstasy was all that I felt. Her beautiful folds and feminine places falling to my lips and tongue; my drive to absolutely have her in that most honest way was tireless.

Her unlocked-front door meant “Yes.” Her body displayed like a fantasy-object meant “Yes.” I imagined she was also starting to understand that, in some manner, none of these preludes between the two of us mattered. At some point, I was always going to be with her, doing this — I couldn’t stop myself. My mouth pressed onto her; my lips kissing her; my hands covering her tits and discovering their pure sexuality.

And then it was building, and then it was happening. I felt her body clench and release into waves of heat, her orgasm traveling like a burning flood, which couldn’t be felt any other way than as a confession of lust. A secret craving for complete abandon with a man. She could be that way with me. And I could demand that of her.

It seemed my fevered-lust for her pussy was as significant as the way I touched her. My need for her was all consuming; simply, I imagined that it made her sopping wet simply to know how much I needed to fuck her.


Again, I didn’t really care or think past my urges. In the half-light of her bedroom, I stood to the side, looking down at kaçak bahis her as she lay sprawled on the bed. Her still glowing orgasm removing one part of her personality and replacing it with another. She was still laying on her back. Her legs still spread and she was still presented as a beautiful woman, just one who was even more crushingly beautiful when exposed, totally.

I stepped out of my boxer shorts. My cock felt enormous. The time I had spent tasting and loving her body driving straight into its size and purpose. Without warning and without a particular invitation, I positioned myself over her, straddling her torso, then feeding my cock into her mouth. Demanding her to nurse and consume me. But then I looked down at her, seeing her face in a moment of pure eroticism: her lips enveloping me and her eyes closed as she sucked on my cock, just as she brought a surge of perfect pleasure that made me shutter.

The first time her lips found my body, and it was there. Right there. We didn’t have traditional romance to prop us up and carry us through. We had a passion and urges that we could share. I felt myself begin to lose control, or whatever version of control I had exercised up to that point. Her mouth was almost too much; it threatened to turn me into a version of myself that wanted only one thing.

The same way she had coaxed, and pulled me, and guided me so subtly to gorge on her pussy, I now returned to her. But it was with my more direct manner, which found my body leaning into her, my hands grasping at her hair, my hips pushing my cock further into her mouth because I simply had to feel her loveliness and what she brought to me.


Weeks later, I smiled to myself as I thought about that night. We somehow managed to keep our on-going ‘affair’ (as we jokingly referred to it) secret from work. It was difficult for me to keep that barrier. On those occasional Thursday nights at the restaurant, I forced myself to sit apart from her. And, I knew — soon – I would have to find a different job, but it was a price I was happy to pay. I was going to have to rearrange my life, yet again.

Maybe I didn’t think — I just did. Or maybe (truthfully) I actually WAS thinking, the whole time. I was just following that “Grrrrr” which sent me someplace else with her, and myself. A place I had never been. There was Brahms on the piano; push-ups that left me breathless. A feeling of her leg pressed up against mine, which I didn’t ever want to leave.

It was oddly intimate that the first time my cock parted her pussy, I had yet to kiss her square on the lips. The most intimate thing thrown backwards and reconsidered. She was beneath me. Her hair romantically falling on the pillows, just as it had when I first caught sight of her that night. It would have been perfectly natural to lower myself and simply kiss her. Finally. Feel those lips and share that first breath between us.

And yet I deferred that pleasure and connection for just a few moments later. Her legs were spread; my cock dangling just in front of her already ravaged pussy; the urge to fuck her and cum deep inside her was shattering my thoughts. I had to have her. And so there was that differently intimate feeling. She would know the full-feeling of my cock pumping her cunt before she knew the feeling of my mouth on her mouth. I would know the warm-wet embrace of her body and the pure-sex of her most perfect place before a simple kiss.

For the first time, I pushed into her. I let the feeling surround me; I imagined that she felt it too…

It would be wrong to say it was a ‘sex-based’ relationship we were finding. It would be more wrong to say it was sweet and sensitive.

It was the kind of relationship where the first time we kissed, I was on top of her, pushing inside with a kind of insane need. Our lips met, and my orgasm became impossible to turn back. I held her beneath me; I swam in that feeling she brought.

It was this: a relationship where I couldn’t be sure, but I probably grunted meaningless words the first time we kissed.

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