Dreamweavers Ch. 03

"Patrick," I say to myself. "This is a dance you can do!" I lather each of her shoulders and rub the soap into them. She closes her eyes and moans lightly. I know women carry a lot of tension there. The neck. I massage her there too. I lather her and focus on the small of her back, use my thumbs to work her spine. She moans more loudly, more sensually, and she thrusts her behind against me, my cock slippery with soap teasing her ass. I fall to my knees and kiss her ass, rub the soap over it. Oh, this is such a nice ass, warm, taut and firm, with a woman's heavenly curve of the hip. It's there for having kids, I suppose. To me, it's there to clasp and hold close to me. A woman's hips are the sexiest part of the female body.

I lather and massage her thighs and calves. I feel every muscle she has. "Turn,' I ask her. Before me is Chelsea's womanhood, but I am not focused on that. Instead, I kiss her there but move the soap up her belly, to her breasts, feel her hard nipples, the gentle sway of her hips against me, the light moans coming from her lips. I turn the showerhead to its gentlest pulse and outline her body, fill in the details with water. I move to her pussy and lap her, alternating with the gently-jetting water.

Her body twitches and she moans very loudly, pulls my head to her, holds it there. She thrusts her cunt to me and I suck and lick her, probing until I can feel her engorged clit. I stop. I never have felt a woman's clit before.

"Oh, God, Patrick! Don't stop! Suck it, hard and now!" As I do, she shudders and quakes against me, holds me hard, spreading her legs as wide as she can. She grunts hard. I feel Chelsea's slit flooding, flowing into my mouth. She shudders again and then becomes limp. Silence, except for breathing and streaming hot water. "Twice!" she groans. "Patrick's wonderful tongue!"

Steam is still rising. I stay kneeled before her, filled with the taste of her. I have moved on. Karen, I loved you. But you died. God speed you in your latitudes. I reach around Chelsea's hips and hug her to me. Oh, God, let this work out, please!

Chelsea shuts off the water and helps me stand. She looks confused. "Sex isn't love, is it, Patrick? I mean, did you just make love to me? I've never felt this way."

I cannot answer except to say I don't know. I think love takes time—more than hours. More than a poem and great sex. My first wife and I had great sex. I mistook it for love and didn't realize it until my daughter was born.

I reach for a towel and begin patting her dry. As I move to dry between her legs, she pushes her hand against mine. "Harder," she whispers. She twitches. "Yes! Harder!" Her body tightens and she arches back. I hold her back at the waist with one arm. "Yes! A little more. Hard!" she urges. Then she grabs my shoulders and quivers again. "Patrick!" she grunts and grips me, buries her nails into me. She claws at my chest, scratching it, leaving tiny red trails of passion, and she continues quaking. Panting, now leaning against me, finally catching her breath.

"Oh, yes, you got the touch, Baby!'" And she kisses me. Then she takes the towel and dries me gently but quickly. "If you're this good on a Ferris wheel and in a shower, I'm getting you under the sheets in the next thirty seconds!" She giggles and jumps from the tub, pulling me with her out into the bedroom.

"Lie down, Lover. I'll be right back."

Huh? Oh, yeah, the rubbers. But when she returns, she carries only the talcum powder.

"On your tummy, Patrick! Close your eyes." She whispers. I feel her straddle my ass, her hair tickling my cheeks. I smell the powder as she sprinkles it on me. I can't identify the smell, but it is soft and light, not perfumey or chemical. She begins at my upper arms and shoulders, working her fingers like she knows what she is doing. God, that feels good! To my shoulder blades and down my spine—my butterfly, again, flitting over me. She turns and straddles my lower back and I feel her powder my legs, working my calves and thighs, then slowly between them. I feel her sprinkle my cheeks. "This is one sweet tight ass, Patrick! Best I've ever seen," she says as she massages. It is all so sensual and pleasurable. I wonder how many asses she's seen! Shut up, Patrick! It's a compliment! Even if it's a lie, let her tell it!

"Now to the best stuff! Flip over, Baby." I am becoming self-conscious again. She kneels back down on my cock, not yet hard, and powders my chest. "You keep in pretty decent shape, don't you? I like that." She leans forward and, yes, she sucks my ear lobes and then takes little bites on my neck. All over! Ouch! I'll have to go back to that store tomorrow and show the girls what Grandma did! Down my shoulders and more little nips. Oh, consume me, Chelsea! I am your appetizer, main course, and dessert!

She sucks my nipples and licks them, plays with them with the tip of her tongue. My cock starts to harden. "Oooh, you're waking up, Patrick! That's why I'm here, in your bed, with you tonight!" She laughs and then groans as I rise against her. She blows across my belly and my skin puckers and tickles at the warmth. Dahlia. She turns, still resting on my cock, it growing a little harder. She wiggles on it. I am not a man of the world—I have had sex with about a dozen women in my life. The ones I remember most and best are those that were confident in their own sexuality, who enjoyed arousing me, who wanted to and did, who loved that they could, instead of waiting for me to become aroused because of them. Chelsea knows her power. And, oh, her back is extraordinarily beautiful. I follow it down as her hips glide over my cock.

She slides her knees back toward my head, presenting her mons to me, and sucking my cock into her with a moan of pleasure. I am engulfed in her completely, suddenly, and unhesitatingly. I am not fond of the 69 position—it seems neither partner can concentrate on the gift at hand. But she is so inviting and lush, I must lap at her, taste her once again, while enjoying—oh, God, she is giving incredible head! I am going to cum right now! "Stop! Chelsea, stop!" I yell. I hear Pippen barking from somewhere in the house.

"I'm sorry, Patrick!" she says in a panic, turning to me. "Did I hurt you?"

"Lord, no, Baby! It's just…."

"Patrick, now isn't the only time you'll have with me, is it? Are you going to cum and then kick me out? Cum in my mouth now. We can make love for hours later. I want you, didn't I say that to you? How I wanted your seed in me, tasting you and feeling you slide down my throat? I want you this way!" She pauses. "You want to watch me, don't you, Baby. Watch me suck you until you cum? Look at the suck in my cheeks as I take you? See if I swallow all of you? I am going to take you down my throat and never let go!"

She kneels between my legs and she sucks hard and bobs up and down, grabbing my ass, the curls in her hair bouncing. This is the blowjob and night of my dreams. Did I feed the dogs? I wonder. Should I change the oil in the van? I really should go online and check my VISA balance! Oh, sweet fucking Jesus, I am going to blow the back of her head off with my orgasm. "Yes!" I cry. "There! Oh, Chelseeeeea!" I cum. My hips buck up, my back arches, my legs twitch. She squeezes and sucks my cock in my spurting rhythm. The lightshow in my head beats any acid trip I have taken. Beats any sex I have ever had.

If her orgasm on the Ferris wheel was primal, mine is ages before that. She never gives up her suck and clench. She coughs a little. I touch her shoulder and she tingles. She releases my cock from her mouth, kneels on her hands and knees, her breasts hanging full and luscious. I reach to her and touch her nipples. Like marbles. Like olives. The candles flicker, jealous of my glow. Jordan enters the room to see what's up. I bring Chelsea down to lay on me, her breasts and entire body almost too hot to touch. Her weight on me comforts me.

I caress her hair and use my fingers to follow the contours of her face. She sighs so deeply. I caress her back and follow it to her ass. She sighs so deeply. She moves up a bit, looks me in my eyes, and kisses me. I have never been much of an afterglow type of guy, tolerating it at best. I embrace her and then hold her head to mine, tasting myself as I taste her and I become released from the world. I move her so she is beside me. In the glow of the candles and the sex, she is as beautiful as a woman could ever be, I think.

"As long as I'm around," Chelsea laughs, "you'll never save that much up again!"

"We have to talk about that, you know. You being around!"

"Do you want me, Patrick? Around?"

"Do you cook?"

"No."

"Good. I do. Damn good too! I'm 54."

"46."

"More like May and August, not December and June. Do you like my buddies?"

"I love doggies. Unless they hump me! I only want you to hump me!"

"I have to sleep on the left side. Two pillows. Dogs at my feet."

Chelsea sniffles and I see a tear in her eye.

"I take relationships seriously. Long haul or no haul. I commit. Most of all, I have to stay sober. I am nothing, and we are nothing, without it. That is the only thing I would ask of you. Stick with your recovery. Everything else will fall in place."

"Cuddle me to you," she asks

In the soft light, Chelsea nestles in my left shoulder. Her breathing slows to a sleep. We have only had sex—we still will want to make love. I yawn. Sex is fantastic, but this is better. My girl cuddled to me. Pleased, safe, warm. J & P hop onto the bed. They, too, nestle at my feet and both sigh. "Where has Karen been?" they ask in their doggie brains. "She smells different." Yes. She does. Not Karen. Chelsea. In the morning.

"Good morning! DreamWeavers. 'Tell us your dream and we'll make someone cream!' I'm Paddy McGuire—let me set you on fire!"

"Hey, that's good, Paddy-O! It's Simeon, Patrick. Can I come by and drop off the computer and get my paycheck?"

I am not good at firing people, but he really did fuck up this story. "Yeah, sure, Simeon. In an hour?"

About 45 minutes later, the doorbell rings. J and P bark a little, but not like they do with the UPS guy.

I open the door. D'Arcy? "D'Arcy! Is that you?" I stand there nailed to the floor. She stands outside my door in red thigh-high boots, a red leather mini-skirt, and a white knit crop-top. Fur coat. She wears a platinum-blonde wig in an afro style. For several seconds, I forget she's got a cock and feel a throbbing between my legs. She clutches a briefcase in her left hand.

"May I come in, Patrick?" She does. My jaw is still wide open.

"D'Arcy, I'm expecting someone soon. On business. What can I do for you real quick?"

She doesn't say anything but walks through the room, peeking into the kitchen.

"Looks like you and Chelsea had a great time last night! But you still got a lot of rubbers left over in them boxes!" she grins.

"D'Arcy, Chelsea and I are none of your fucking business!"

"You said I should call you. Something about awakening a longtime curiosity? What might that be Patrick? Sucking a nigga-bitch cock, maybe?"

"Chelsea's moving in, D'Arcy. Anything about you and me will just have to be another story, another time, another place. This one is over."

"Yeah," she sighs. "I just didn't want you two fucking each other. That's all," D'Arcy says.

"What are you fucking talking about?" I am clueless.

"She's still my fucking wife, you know! You fucked my wife last night!" D'Arcy begins to cry. "I loved her. A lot, once."

D'Arcy sets the briefcase on the coffee table, snaps the latches, and opens it. "Here's your fucking iBook! Where's my paycheck?"