Allure Ch. 01

Previously submitted as merely a story (In the Beginning). "Allure" occurred decades ago. Based on letters, poems and journal entries written at the time, this work has been rendered as true to the reality of these moments as possible. The woman of "Allure" has read the whole of and concurs. "That's how I remember it," she said. I had worried time might have embellished its memory. I didn't want the words to color the moment. "They don't," she said. But, reality can harm. Thus, the man and woman cannot have names in this account to keep other lives from hurt.

In the Beginning

The woman leans the willingness of her form against the dresser—-palms flat on the polished imitation veneer, fingers curling over the hard edge, eyes betraying nothing but her certainty--and lifts her right foot. "Take off my boots."

She does not command mastery over this man, though he would willingly grant her that if she asks. No, her words burrow deeper, claiming dominion over this moment and where it will lead. She has no choice. Soft kisses have brought them to this room where intimacy reigns, but yielding must come from her. Too soon and the moment will turn tawdry; too delayed and the moment might never be. She sets the tone; he must set the tenor.

He bows to her command, her boot-clad foot on his thigh as he sits on his heels before her, obeying only because he knows that whatever direction they will take must begin with an assertive touch. A reckless hand wraps around her calf, molding itself to the curve of the warm flesh beneath her faded jeans. A confident hand grasps the heel of her boot and tugs; the snug leather slips readily free. The other follows quickly.

How this man and this woman arrive in this particular place at this particular time matters little in this telling. The meeting nearly six months earlier, the words spoken since, the touches gentle that granted permission, the decision made without discussion--all have been prelude. Without this moment, the particulars can have no relevance. With this moment, the particulars of before pass into oblivion.

By inviting her into this space he shares with another, he takes a step outside his other life. In accepting this invitation, she takes a step outside her other life. Neither feels a need to consider where this steps leads. That will come later, or not. On this day, at this moment existing out of time, they explore the possibility of a beginning, content in the arousal that drives them, testing the measure of their resolve and calculating the passion each brings.

She wiggles her toes along the rug's rough pile and fluffs her soft rust hair and spreads her presence into the otherness of this space, accepts his willful opening of it to her as easily as he accepts her willingness to stride unafraid into it. She stands flushed, soft green sweater top curved to her form, faded blue jeans snug to her form, bright gold rings secure to her form.

He doesn't mind the reality of her rings or she of his. Her other life exists, as does his. They do not arrive at this moment in this place of intimacy oblivious of truths others ignore in less-deliberate circumstances: the anonymity of a chance meeting in a bar, the detached reality of a weekend conference, the freedom of intense strangers surprising each other in isolation.

Because he and she first arrived together in social surroundings, each knows of the other lives--the stable one of hers, the volatile one of his. They could no more hide the otherness of their lives than they could deny the ease in they arrive his bedroom. He will not notice her rings when she clasps her hand around his or when her fingers brush along his skin or when they wrap around his hardness, cool metal tugging at his pubic hair. She will not notice his ring when he clasps her hand or when his fingers brush along her skin or when one slips into her wet softness, hard gold pulling at her pubic hairs.

Her rings alone have no power to stop her from towering over him, from placing her form at his disposal, from allowing thoughts to become reality. His rings cannot stop him from savoring this reality, from placing his form at her disposal, from kneeling when she commands he remove her boots.

"You are quick to obey." She drops the softness of her words as reward, her voice husky, her tone enticing, her blue eyes focusing on his hazel eyes.

"When I want." He prolongs nearness, a hand softly pleading along the back of her knee and sensually inviting along the firm stretch of her calf. "I like your presence here."

She lingers accessible over him, hovers against the dresser, soft blue eyes following his as he traces the shape of her presence, finely softened red hair, pale skin, breasts rising gently beneath the comfort of her sweater, belly curving into the seductive fit of her jeans. Under his gaze, she makes herself form to become function. Because of her presence, he makes himself function to become pleasure. The direction certain: friends must become lovers.

"Do you enjoy what you see?" She slips her leg from his caress, pushes herself away from the dresser and crawls kneeling to the center of the bed.

"Very much." He crawls kneeling in front of her and runs longing fingers up her arms.

"My presence feels very much at ease here." She relaxes the flat of her hands against the thin firmness of his chest. "My presence feels very much wanted here."

"It is."

These words so softly spoken swirl about them seductive, bridge the gap between friends dabbling with danger and lovers embracing it with a first kiss--first only because the previous few have merely been expressions of possibility--the kiss several days earlier merely a step forward, others just moments ago in his study merely permission to continue the flow into lovers in more comfortable surroundings.

Knowledge releases and relaxes, lets them taste this danger they gather about themselves, turning the kiss explosively tender, barely touching, more a brushing of auras than a merging of flesh. Yet, his fingers wrap firmly expectant around her arms; hers burrow catlike into his chest.

"I nearly didn't come." She admits the hesitation without apology.

"I know." He accepts her doubt without reproach.

The second kiss comes tenderly explosive, prying open the auras of their otherness and wrapping them layered into a transparent shield that can neither hide nor protect them. Their willingness to set aside convention and to explore this fierceness between them requires this shield; it concentrates the lust each easily bares. Flesh seeks flesh. Breath seeks breath. Being seeks being. Her fingers slip yielding to the back of his neck as his slip softly into the tangle of her hair. She seduces his teeth with her tongue; he traces the flush on her cheeks with his thumbs.

"Take off your shirt." Command without fear.

"Take off your sweater." Assertion without demand.

The third kiss comes seductively urgent. Bared nipples rising on her pale freckled breasts caress his chest hair, tingling subtle, a touch at once soft and deliberate. He spreads the soft flesh of her back beneath his fingers, wanders along its fluid curve, strokes it wanton.

"Do you realize how dangerous we are?" She licks his lips.

"Does it matter?" In seeking to catch her tongue with his lips, he throws them off balance. They tumble tangled to the mattress. She sorts them out quickly, playful laughter punctuating their movements, skin against skin. Gentle morning light seeping through the curtained window adds richness to the texture of the form and function and pleasure they open to each other.

He stretches long and lean on his back, one arm gathering her nestled, the other resting inert at his side. The hardness risen from this woman's presence stretches confidently bold beneath his jeans. She curls into him on her side, one hand to prop her head, the other delicate fingers tracing invisible patterns through the dark hair spreading across his chest. A breast lingers teasingly close, pale thin hairs ringing the nipple that rests so gently aroused against him.

"Maybe we're too dangerous." She studies the shape of her hand and the feel of her fingers on his skin.

"Does that bother you?" He relaxes in their presence together, the warmth of her skin against his, the scent of her hair close, the responsiveness of her spirit, the reason she lies here and not elsewhere this morning.

"No." She kisses his chest softly, reveling in the stretch of him along her, his male aroma hers to inhale, the eagerness of his response, the reason he lies with her this morning and not another. "I feel freer here. There are too many demands elsewhere. Sometimes I can't breath."

"The problem is people." His fingers dabble along the back edge of her jeans, eager to move forward, content to let this moment drift where it will. "People become too possessive."

"I can't understand possessiveness--no matter what it is--of things, of the body." She looks just beyond him, focusing on the wall, or the nightstand, or the shape of the lamp. "No one person can satisfy all our needs." She turns her eyes to his, studies the greenness emerging from his hazel eye so fearlessly returned, allows him the blueness of hers brazenly unhindered.

He runs his hand along the soft hairs of her arm. "I read a novel long ago about an island in the Pacific. If one person wanted another, he or she gave her or him a conch shell. The meaning was clear. Sexual pleasure. They trotted off, explored each other without fear and satisfied whatever curiosity drew them together. After, they could return to their other lives. Since all accepted the practice, married or not, there was no jealously."

"Fantasy appeals." She licks his shoulder. "But we are not fiction. Reality must prevail."

He turns into her form, defining their presence on this bed. His fingers test for the first time the pliancy of her breasts, reading the craggy Braille of her nipple with his thumb. She keeps a breast free for his touch, bares her throat to his lips, hides her fingers in the comfort of his hair. Neither offers resistance; the moment dictates the touch. But they surrender in their own way and at their own pace.

The man yields control of his breathing to her greedy lips, her open mouth, her silken tongue. The woman allows him to decide when to pull the press of her jeans-covered softness to the length of his denim-sheathed hardness. This man and this woman let all the reasons they should not be together half-naked on this bed melt away with kisses and touches and arousals. Yet, the sensual feel of her breasts bare on his chest, his erection bold against her belly, their lips wet with each other's kisses do not come hurried. Sex alone does not drive them, or she already would be nude beneath him, legs splayed, and he would be nude over her, thrusting deep inside her wetness. No, the layers they unveil for each other to explore reveal more than the intricate sexual moments they will share. But pleasure builds in a way that eludes control and demands satisfying.

"I don't have a conch shell." He kisses her nose, inhaling her heady fragrance--part intoxicating perfume, but mostly the scent of her--as if she must always be the air he breathes. "Wouldn't this be easier if we undress?"

"I'm not getting undressed." Her words come casual, but definitive. "I don't like being rushed."

"I see." Disappointment? Yes. He can hardly let any other feeling intrude and he does not have the power to mask it. Instead, he clings to one shred of hope, for her words did not come between them as refusal.

She kisses his chin, holding the fragileness he cannot conceal tightly to her so it does not swirl destructive. Having come this far, having admitted with the press of her body against his that she wants this man as much as he wants her, she cannot let the moment escape. In not retreating from her, he confirms that he wants her presence here, not just the pleasure of her sex. She wants this moment with him as much as she wants the many moments that will come. "What's the matter? Can't you wait?"

"Of course." But not really. Only they exist in this selfish moment. He cannot ignore the arousal this woman who stretches half nude against him creates. He assumes she cannot ignore the stretch of him half nude against her, tautly erect. She can feel the measure of his want. Her hips press against his. The softness of her belly traps his hardness plain between them. He has not yet felt the depth of her want, but he feels the warmth of it seeping through her jeans against his thigh.

"It's much better not to be rushed." She caresses his shoulder, aware that the press of their bodies tells more truth than the soft words they brush across each other's skin. Because she does not shy away from their touch and he does not interrupt it, nothing will interfere with the journey so newly begun. On this day, only the barrier of jeans keeps them apart. The caution in her words merely reflects a wish to savor the anticipation she builds inside and he will come to appreciate.

His fingers skim the surface of her skin. "I know." He sees the falseness of his words in her eyes. He feels the deception of his thoughts nestling urgently hard against her. He hears the hollowness of his promise in the soft touch of their lips.

She does not mind the small lie because everything about this man gives rise to her own small lie. The tentacles of his lust reach as deeply inside her as hers burrow into him. And though she will not retract her words and allow him to stretch unbridled inside her, she does not have to allow their lust to whither.

"I don't think you do." She pushes herself up from the lean stretch of him and kneels at his hips. Her soft red hair tousles pagan across her shoulders. Pale freckled skin bare to her waist beckons his eyes and his touch.

He does not interfere with her ease of movement as she unbuckles his belt, tugs his zipper down and frees his cock. He gives himself over to her confidence of self as she wraps fingers so recently soft on his chest skillfully around his hardness, crushing dark public hair thickly grown. He surrenders to her enjoyment of purpose as she tugs the willing length of him rising into the adultery of her mouth.

The soft scrub of her breath wanders sultry along his sensitive skin. Her mouth closes around his hard flesh as greeting, exploring its shape and texture with the same eager curiosity her lips had explored the sensuality of his lips. Her fingers, so delicate in tracing intricate patterns through his chest hair, masturbate him firmly when her lips pull nearly free of him, grip him deliberately still as she gorges herself.

This open ease of her mouth captivates him, not merely from the intimate sexuality she grants him, but from the flow of her whole being. He notes the details, turning them into images he will carry with him--the seductive curve of her bare back disappearing into the modesty of her jeans, the tantalizing bobble of her bare breasts in rhythm with the bobbing of her head, the silky rust-colored hair trailing teasingly along his bare skin. All these individual images come together with the reckless stretch of him in her mouth, enhancing not merely the arousal of his body, but imploding his senses. The press of her fingers, the pull of her lips, the sanctuary of her mouth sink the tendrils of her essence deeply into his, coursing through him unstoppable, and burrow into the deepest neurons of his brain.

This woman who only a moment before demanded patience sucks his cock in abandon. This woman who only a moment before hesitated at getting fully undressed runs a sleek tongue around the saliva wet rubbery tip of his cock. This woman who only moments before existed as wife and mother in her other life willingly pumps his cock, not merely to bring the selfishness of his climax closer, but to bring the whole of his being into her.

The wish of his climax comes first, wanting it to be masculine bold and thickly white and potently strong. Then the feel of it emerges, somewhere deep, building in uncertainty. Will it come quickly, fiercely explosive? Or will it layer itself, momentarily paralyzing before spurting uncontrollable? What of this woman, granting him such an intensely intimate gesture and revealing to him the passion boiling inside her and the willful abandon with which she satisfies it? Where does she want the cum that her hand and mouth and tongue and presence bring so near to bursting?

Will she look at him for a second as she pulls her mouth from his flesh, sitting back on her heels as her fingers tug his climax explosive? Will she enjoy the moment when his cum arcs and dribbles down her hand, providing slickness that will help her pump him dry? He would gladly watch, noting the texture of his cum on her delicate fingers and the expression his climax brings to this deliberate moment they share. But in sitting so near, her breasts would compete for his attention.

His fingers reach for the pliancy of her breasts, ignored in his selfish enjoyment of her mouth. He pinches her nipples gently, tugs them taut, scrapes them lightly with his fingernails. Does she want the slickness of cum on this flesh, rubbed smooth so that after, when she drives back to her other life, she can inhale the scent of him--and perhaps herself--rising from beneath her clothes? He would gladly kneel astride her, masturbating himself so she can watch that first spasm of his climax spurt with uncontrolled force and feel his cum warmly thick on her breasts and nipples. Would she reach up to feel the pulsing and to let the last dribbling of his cum coat her hand as well as his?

He inhales deeply, tightening some muscle deep beneath his cock, wanting to delay as long as possible his climax because he finds the feel of this woman's mouth not merely pleasurable, but an entry way to the intricate layers inside her she peels back with each movement, each gesture, each touch. He wants to prolong this moment because he has found the woman behind the lust and he does not want to lose the preciousness of this moment.

Her teeth rake his flesh. The forceful hand wrapping around his hardness pumps him boldly expectant. Her mouth sucking his cock commands his satisfaction. He must climax; she wills his orgasm. Urgency demands the decision of where the spurting lands be hers to make.

He touches her cheek. "I'm very near."

She trails a fragile web of saliva as she slips him from the comfort of her mouth, looking at him with blue eyes glassy with lust, face flushed, lips so moist they glisten. "Don't let me stop you." Barely enough time taken to speak the words before she returns to him, skimming warm breath across his wet skin. She kisses the length of his cock, sucks a testicle into her mouth and licks her way back to the rubbery head, engulfing him.

Inside her mouth again, he surrenders whatever little control he has left. She sucks with more certainty now, preparing herself for his taste. Each understands the intoxicating intimacy about to be shared. Each wills it. Neither can stop it.

The first gushing spurt comes greedily satisfying, and each spurt after adds pleasure after pleasure. He arches the fullness of himself to her so she can hold him thick in her mouth, taking and tasting as much of his pleasure as she wishes.

She takes it all, as if in this moment of ejaculation shared, of pleasure drained, of wantonness opened, all the obstacles that have bottled up his life dissipate into the intricate abyss of her mouth. This woman holds him ebbing, pulling her lips slowly from his cock only after the last waning twinge of his climax, running a greedy tongue catlike smooth to capture the last morsel of cum her fingers press oozing.

The kiss she returns to his lips tastes metallic, slick from her saliva, sticky from his cum. He gobbles her lips, showing her plain he has no fear of savoring his taste on her, but pleasure given so willingly deserves pleasure shared.