Entangled

Now I know what it is to be entangled. It means to be tangled up in your own frustrated desire: a sad joy. Not bittersweet, two emotions dissolving into each other, but two emotions entangled: both whole and solid. I was in a seven-year relationship with a man at the time. I could neither admit nor seek sexual fulfillment.

When I met Lucia I met someone entirely new. She completely amazed and astounded me. She told me how impressed she was with my accomplishments when I thought they were nothing. She told me I was beautiful, she hugged me every chance she got. I knew it was just her: the way she is with her friends. She says such intimate things to everyone. She stands that close to everyone. She whispers so close to her friend's ears. I never met a person who was in such intimacy with the world.

I wanted my heart to wake up like her's, my mind to stretch like her's, my bitterness to dissolve. I wanted wonder at her age, even again at mine. But still, the magic falls a little short of that. She makes me sort of uncomfortable sometimes, when she says such intense things to me. Especially when her husband is right there. Or if she whispers in my ear, and can he see me panic? Can he see that I am afraid he'll think something of it, when I don't act that way with people?

"My husband is going out of town," she says. "I'll be lonely. Come on over if you can." She never makes me feel like our age difference makes her opinions superior. She carries 50 like it's the status quo; her short salt and pepper hair like it's the latest fashion. She's standing two inches away from me, smiling to make it warm the way she always does. It's a lie. She'll never be lonely: not someone like her, drawing everyone closer, making us all feel like the only person in her world. I know what she means: a movie, a discussion, maybe some wine.

Definitely not, "come over and do all those things you want to me. All those things you know my husband is good enough to do, but you want to anyway."

"I will." I know I will make time for her, anytime. Just to feel her touch my hand is more intimacy than I've ever had with anyone. How can I miss that chance?

She greets me with that same warm smile. I know hospitality is something in her bones. Her apartment is so warm it feels like someone's home and not just a place to stay. Everything is so clean and polished, all the colors and shapes in sync, like she had a decorator come in, when I know it was probably just her sense that everything fits together, if you know how to make it. I used to think that maybe a sense like that would come with age—she does have almost 30 years on me—but now I realize it's just her.

"Sit down." How can she make an offer sound like a command? She's in charge of lots of things: always taking control so easily.

I sit on the couch and she follows, so close to me our thighs are touching: her's bare under that short, tight black skirt. Mine covered in thick jeans that I now regret. She could have chosen the chair right next to the couch—could have sat away from me—but she chooses to sit right up against me. She takes my hand in hers. I know that if I don't look at her, force myself to look serious, she'll know how I feel, but if I look in her eyes too hard she'll know how I feel there too. I have to work so hard not to reveal my feelings, so I'm lucky she seems so oblivious. "So, you want to know about Portugal." She knows I do, though I didn't exactly say that in my emails. I can't get away from it.

"If you are comfortable talking about it." As she begins to recount the tales of her childhood in another country, she moves her hand from mine. She places it on my thigh, and the other on my shoulder.

She's talking into me now. I'm used to it with her: she burns her words into people.

"You're new to me," I say. "A person like you is new to me: so free, so open, so alive. You're not of my world."

She blushes. Why is she so humble when she's so much of the way, the truth and the light? She burns so brightly—the sparks of God were never brighter than when lit by the spark of her soul. I know that if I really knew her I'd be embers, but I am her scorched moth: hoping she will revive me so that I can burn again. And I should run, but I can't. Her very friendship is too much. I should not be on the same continent.

I chalk her close talking; close standing up to being from a Latin culture. That is, until she's rested her tiny body on top of my lap. Her movements were so slow. She's a swan. Every moment closer so graceful, as if it were something she'd always done. Sit next to me; put her hands on me, climb on top of me: just lift her legs an swing her body forward as if I were an old chair. Her fiery amber-chestnut eyes never moved from mine.

"Uh, Lucia?"

"Yes?" Her tone reveals nothing. Her thin lips are some how closer to mine than they were 30 seconds ago.

"I can't help but notice that you're straddling my lap...and...uh...why?"

"Because I want to...and you want me to." The truth sounds like a curse and a blessing falling from her mouth. She knows my truth, speaks it and imprisons me. Her right hand is on my shoulder, creeping down my low cut top, and over my plump breasts, threatening to find my swollen pink nipples, which stretch the fabric that covers them.

Her left is idly stroking my neck until she manages to get me to arch it.

"No I don't." I answer. Another of my truths. One she didn't count on. "I don't because you're married...and if we start, if I put my hands on you, I swear it, Lucia. I swear to God I won't be able to stop."

My hands are clasped tightly at my sides; knuckles white, nails digging sharply into my flesh, and I can walk away.

She needs to get up and I can walk away from her.

She's the first person I can see myself giving everything to, the first I can see myself making love to. But I can still walk away.

She brings her lips to my ear, brushing so lightly against it: "my husband said he's fine with it."

I close my eyes. I'm holding on by a thread. "Are you sure you want to?"

Her tongue runs up my exposed neck. "Yes."

Half way through her answer my lips furiously seek hers. My hands are under her firm, round ass, pulling her to me. I don't kiss her as hard as I want to. I caress her tongue, dance with her. My hands unbutton her blouse, sweeping over her petite and perky breasts. Her taut nipples strain so hard against it. I can tell she is wearing a bra by the way her flesh felt under the fabric. I lift it over her flat stomach, taking my time to graze every inch of smooth, caramel flesh. She helps by lifting her arms, taking the uplifted shirt from me and throwing it somewhere to the right.

She used the strings of my heart and tied me fast. Then she lit the ends of the strings—bbecause I begged her to—and soon the flames will devour me.

We kiss and nibble on every inch of skin we can reach, until I've had enough and tilt her back so I can lick her breasts from underneath to the aureole and, pinch her nipples before I take them gently in my mouth.

She moans so guttural; from way down inside—practically purrs—and it's ecstasy.

"Fuck me," she commands and begs, her arousal coursing through her words. "I want you to fuck me really hard." I didn't know her voice could get so deep. It almost sounds masculine to her otherwise gentle feminine tone. I don't have to answer her. She knows I will do anything for her. I just stare in her eyes and she knows it's confirmation.

She has to stand up so I can unzip her tight skirt and pull her panties down over her slim, smooth legs. I do so with fever; and with even more fever I shove three of my fingers as far inside of her as they will go. This elicits a very loud moan, followed by equally primal ones as I circle her clit with my thumb, and pull my fingers towards me, my mouth finding every inch it can: licking and sucking her neck, her ears, her breasts, everywhere I can think of. And she's not holding back from acknowledging the pleasure. She has not one ounce of self-consciousness to restrain her.

I bite her neck to release some of the tension brought on by such a strong desire. She seems to rather enjoy the biting, as she moans and presses tighter against me. She's so fucking wet and hot it's amazing! Her warm, tight cunt is soaking my fingers. I tell her so: tell her how good she feels.

My other hand's on the back of her neck, so when I come up I can bring her mouth to mine faster. I fuck her deep and hard per her ques, pulling most of the way out before slamming back it as hard as I can without becoming afraid to hurt her.

She's fucking my fingers too, moving her hips like they're on fire. Her gorgeous naked body is dancing on my lap. I'm panting and moaning like crazy, like her: it's too much, all this heat, all this need I've kept back from myself. I release my denial, all of it, on her.

"Oh God" I say in a voice I don't recognize, completely lost in it, "Oh God, oh God." Let it go—let it all go—everything that made it seem holy to lie to myself. Break it down. Wake up the person who knows and does what's right, instead of lying to herself and denying herself wholeness. Wake up that person who takes what she wants so gently you'll left thankful that she did.

"More!" Blaring her fiery eyes into my own. I give her another finger and fuck her harder. Every time she moans there's another dam bursting in my cunt. My clit's so full of blood it hurts like needles shooting through it.

My thumb plays with her clit, tapping it, barely touching it then coming closer. My fingers burn from the fire in her perfect cunt. The ridges inside of her are making my own cunt pulsate. Finally I can't take anymore. I need to hear and feel her cum. I stop teasing her clit, lift the hood a little and circle it gently but firmly for a few minutes, and she lays her head on my shoulder, and purrs a defeated "oh God" herself just before she cums.

I slowly remove my fingers from her pussy and she moans at the loss. "It's ok sweetheart," I whisper, "I'm not done. It's just time to move to the bedroom."

She doesn't say anything, she's still coming down: panting more and more shallowly. I lift her up and take her to her bedroom just a few feet away. I lay her head on the softest pillow and look at her all laid out. Her creamy skin calls to me, as do her full yet small breasts and her silken thighs.

I crawl between her legs and lick her inner thighs. She moans in approval. She wants to take my hand but after I fuck her with my tongue it's going back in her cunt, so I deny her this. I put off taking her clit in my mouth for as long as I can stand, preferring to tease as long as possible without completely frustrating her. The vanilla scent of her pussy is overwhelming: grabbing me, pulling me towards goodness, light and truth.

My tongue flicks lightly across her clit, her inner labia, and the bottom of her vagina. Then I move to lightly bite her thighs again. "Please..." she begs in a low voice. "Please..."

"Shh. I promise I will." Then it's back to flicking my tongue around everywhere but her clit, then it's in her vagina as far as I can get it, fucking her for a moment. She tastes so fucking good I can almost cum from that alone.

And finally I take her clit in my mouth and lick rapidly around it, up and down and side to side and in circles, bringing my fingers back to fuck her hard while I focus my tongue on her clit: a little pressure, a lot, a very, very light flicker across, a vacuum of my mouth and my tongue lightly licking, over and over until the tension builds up so much her body is stretched to the limit, knuckles white, head moving side to side like she can barely take anymore. I lick her straight through that long orgasm—her shaking and her screaming orgasm—and onto and through the next.

She commands me to strip and lay on the bed with her. "I need to taste you."

She crawls on top of me, her head in my cunt, bringing her cunt down over my lips. Her tongue can dance like her hips. "When can your husband go out of town next?" I eagerly ask.

Just then there's the sound of the key in the door. She jumped so fast I knew something was wrong. "Everyone has shackles," she says, quickly. "Now get out of here before my husband sees you!"