Anticipating Rebecca

"Okay, but you have to close your eyes and promise not to look."

He pulled her up from the sofa and brought her to the mirror.

"Keep your eyes closed, okay?"

She laughed softly but didn't protest. She felt the cold stones graze the skin of her neck. She had to twist her neck to avoid being strangled - what a klutz! Could she peek?

"Don't peek, I'm not done."

It wasn't quite right. The string of purple pearls curved around her neck and down her neckline, but then spilled untidily over her blouse. The canvas was not what it should be. He knew what would work better.

Her breath caught when she felt his fingers unbutton the next button on her blouse. This was the time to grab his hand and stop him. But she stayed still and kept smiling her enigmatic smile. The string of pearls now fell against more of her bare neckline and a hint of black lace rose from her exposed cleavage. Was she wearing La Perla? But it wasn't quite perfect yet . . .

They had met again after a long time, years even. This time he had flown in, making excuses about a business trip. Their rendez-vous for lunch was the hotel lobby. He arrived early, unable to fake coolness any longer. She was late, as usual. When he saw her, he felt the old familiar ache that only she inspired. The years had only made her eyes bigger and darker and her walk more sensuous: she wore the leather pants that had provoked such delightful dreams since he saw them first. Over lunch, he was mesmerized by her long, graceful fingers that punctuated the ends of her sentences. Her husband was still swimming, competing semi-professionally every week. His wife was still immersed in her studies. He picked the wine, even though she had once brought a man to his knees by describing a Pinot Noir.

He watched her face in the mirror, her beautiful eyes still hidden by her eyelids, as he unbuttoned the next button of her blouse. Her smile flickered for a moment but then, perhaps strengthened by a decision, returned. The string of pearls was still too long for the v-shaped bareness of her skin. One more button, then.

It was La Perla, the new season. Black, of course. Mainly lacy nothingness, but modestly covering her nipples and the undersides of her small, pert breasts. The pearls hung down to the front clasp of her bra.

Not quite, though. In a flash of artistic inspiration, he pulled her blouse out from her pants and undid the remaining two buttons . . . perfect, perfect, perfect: white neck, white breasts, white belly, purple pearls, black lace, framed by the red silk of her open blouse.

"Now. Open your eyes."

She looked at herself in the mirror. The artist in her was admiring. The woman in her felt her heart beating quickly, she was so . . . exposed.

"You are incredible."

"I love them, thank you, they are beautiful."

"Do you . . . is it . . . are you wearing La Perla . . . everywhere? You know . . . "

She blushed and laughed.

"Show me, please, pretty please, please, please . . . show me."

She considered this. Show him? Show him what? Show him how? The very thought would never have occurred to her. Before. But now, in the moment . . . what could be the harm? There is no one else here. It was exciting. She met his eyes.

Not believing his luck, he stepped backwards. One step, two steps, and sank on the sofa.

"Show me."

She took a step away from him and paused. She looked at him and took a deep breath. She slowly slipped her blouse off her shoulders, letting it slide down her back. He watched mesmerized as the blouse was removed, felt the ache in his groin as his body reacted to the sight of hers.

Now what? She theatrically set her hand upon the button of her black leather pants, playfully winking at him. With her two hands, she went about unbuttoning her pants and slowly sliding down the zipper. There was more La Perla!

What next? She thought about it for a moment and turned around, facing away from him, towards the mirror. She kicked off her heels and grabbed hold of the leather covering each of her thighs and slid her pants down, sinuously swaying her hips to ease them down. He watched, eyes wide open, open-mouthed, as the black leather gave way to black lace and white skin. He loved the way her spine led his eyes to the top of her Brazilian shorts, right where her narrow waist rounded into her full, rounded buttocks. A blessing of her latina heritage.

Did he like? She looked at him in the mirror, catching the expression on his face. Yes, he liked. Your move, she thought to herself.

He got up from the sofa and in three steps was right behind her. He bent his head down and looked over her shoulder into the mirror. He raised his hands from his sides and skimmed her bare belly before alighting on her lace-covered breasts.

They both watched his hands, now covering her bra, barely touching, now reaching for the clasp in the front, now unhooking, now opening, now, now, now. His pupils dilated and feasted at the sight of her perfectly round, reddish-brown nipples, at last captive to his eyes, her white breasts small and round, but then hidden by his eager brown hands, the greedy fingers trying to engrave every speck of her bare skin into his memory forever.

He would later forget the exact sequence after he couldn't pretend to be coy anymore, when it was all out of his hands and whatever happened, happened. He had been waiting for this moment for so long. But it had never quite worked out. Their situation wasn't right. Or the opportunity was too risky. Or the moment was right and the opportunity was there, but there were other responsibilities to be dealt with. Who sent the first signal? Can the touch of a hand carry such a signal?

She watched him in the mirror. He was kneeling in front of her. She felt the first shock of his lips on her uncovered breasts, the moment his tongue ventured tentatively against her nipple, and then felt her nipple harden under his insistent licking. He wrapped his arms around her waist and she watched his reflection pull her breast into his mouth. He sucked her breast, astonished, aroused beyond measure that the object of his lust for so long was his, and that he was possessing one breast, the other, with his mouth, claiming them with his lips, his tongue, his gentle bites to her flesh, to her nipples.

She watched. Was it real? This man's head pressing into her breasts, her hands encouraging him to suck her, to lick her, to kiss her there and there and there. Was she even guiding him, letting him know where she wanted him to go next? How wicked to be encouraging another man to give her such pleasure, how very novel to be surrendering to such blatant lust, his and hers.

With a moan, he suddenly stood up and nudged her a step back to the left, and another, and another, until she felt the bed behind her legs and allowed herself to be pushed once more, this time falling unto the covers. He let himself gently down on top of her. He supported himself on his elbows, positioned his legs comfortably between hers and looked at her. She smiled at him again.

"Your clothes are scratching me."

"Sorry."

He stood up. His turn. He quickly and unelegantly pulled his shirt over his head, baring his chest. Then he thought that he should at least try to provide her with a show. It was the least he could do, given the way she had teased him into such a phenomenal erection with her own show. So it was her fault, really, that he was having such a hard time pulling his pants down. Briefs - white, snug. She liked the contrast of the tight, white briefs against his dark skin. She turned to lie on her stomach and watch him. What was he waiting for? Was he shy? She realized he wasn't used to doing this . . . He slid his underwear down, watching her face.

She drew in her breath. He was so naked. And ready.

He knew what he wanted. What he needed. For so long he had fantasized about her long, white fingers entwined around his erect, black penis. And those lovely lips . . .

What did he want, pushing himself towards her? No, not that. She didn't do that. His hands were on her face. Please, please. I can't, I've never. Please, I've imagined, I've wanted so long. I want to watch. She could smell his muskiness, she could see the throbbing of his prick, she felt the heat emanating from it, and then the softness of its skin. She touched her lips to its warmth. Encouraged, he pushed his hips forward. She kissed it softly, then again, then again. Okay. Her lips parted and the tip of his cock entered her mouth. Okay, okay . . . she opened her mouth, he pushed himself into her. She wrapped her hand around him and took him into her mouth. She used her hand to stroke his member, sucking him, taking him deep into her mouth, and then pulling back. She felt his warmth and hardness in her mouth, licked him, tasted him. She didn't want him to come so soon.

He didn't want to come so soon. He pulled back.

Was she ready? He came back to the bed, turned her over to face up to him. He loved seeing her naked. She was breathing fast, her breasts were flushed. As he kissed them, he felt her nipples harden and get saw them get darker. Was she ready? His hand wandered down between her legs. He felt her hair, felt the wetness. Yes, she was ready. He felt her mound under his hand, felt her wetness when his finger enter her swollen labia. He pushed his finger deeper into her vagina, then back out, then to her clitoris, engorged, then back inside her, then back out.

She felt herself penetrated by his finger, and then stimulated, and then penetrated, and she felt herself getting wetter and wetter.

Crazed with lust, and unable to restrain himself any longer, he let himself down on top of her. He was slightly off. She reached down and guided him inside her. The swollen tip of his prick entered her, and then more of it, then all of it. He felt her all around him, holding him, squeezing him. He let the weight on his body down on her and she felt him, the weight of him, the scent of him, thrusting inside her. Entering and withdrawing. Invading her, claiming her, making her his, owning her. She met each thrust of his hips with her hips, faster, faster. She was so wet that they could hear the sound of his cock thrusting in and out of her vagina.

He liked hearing her heavy breathing, punctuated by some husky moans. He always loved her voice. It was a sexy, low, strong voice, with a lilting Spanish accent when she spoke English. It was impossible to listen to her without falling in love with her.

Baby, I'm going to come.

Me too.

Come, baby, come.

I'm coming, I can't stop, I'm coming.

I'm coming. Don't stop. Don't stop. I'm coming.

He groaned and held his thrust deep inside her pussy. Oh god, he moaned and felt himself emptying into her in rapid convulsions.

If his life ended now, he would be content, he thought. And at peace.

Was she crying? No. She must just be surprised. At herself. At how things turned out. He had wiped her make up off with his lovemaking. She was exposed, lovelier than he had ever seen her.

He was scared, what would happen next, now that they had reached this milestone? After so many years of waiting, where would they go from this point? Would it be over?

"I love you," he said, "You are the only one for whom I would give up everyone and everything else."

"Prove it," she purred, "En un beso, dime todo lo que me amas."

He would try.