It Was Summer

It was summer, and Lauren sat beside me with a few friends (my friends in fact. She was there for me alone, to taunt and tease). She would remain for another month, after which she flew back to her natural state, finishing up her last year of college down south while cooing softly beneath her boyfriend's lips. Her left side leaned lightly against me; her legs were pulled up onto the couch, leaving one foot hidden beneath her right thigh while the other, a miraculously smooth and soft terminus to her lightly tanned leg, wheeled softly, her big toe tracing minute circles in the air. Her legs (the part of her that most aroused my desire, not due to any defect in the trim lines of her entire form, but rather due to their close approach to perfection. She once stood up upon her toes while wearing a miniskirt. The taut calves and firm muscles appealed to even the most chaste of my aesthetic impulses) were still hidden beneath the beautiful, airy lilac-blue and cruelly opaque drift of her skirt.

For two weeks she had pursued me, or perhaps pursued my pursuit, flirting effortlessly with my desire, but always denying any move I made beyond certain "arbitrary lines" (a phrase I borrow from my erratic Clio). These arbitrary lines did not prevent my finger tips tracing the full length of her thighs, or my tongue gently joining in the kisses I laid in spirals around her belly-button, but they denied me that thing I most desired, which was (and this surprised me most of all, who always believed his own bravado) the simple chance to kiss her lips. So many times I played little games that ended in the barest brushing together or our still speaking mouths, and when I felt her begin to kiss back, even lightly, the excitement I felt embarrasses me!

I knew she would spend the night (she often did) and that she would sleep, spooned beside me, with her tall, thin form pressed hard against mine. It was that sort of intimacy upon which her little game was founded. I suggested to my friends in the most transparent euphemism I could manage that they should leave. My arm was wrapped around Lauren's shoulder, holding her closer against me, exciting me until I held her closer still, looping into the kind of positive feedback that always ended in a rebuff as my hand drifted above her thigh. They left, and the moment the door closed I grabbed her shoulders and pressed her down to the couch. For a moment she wriggled around, trying more to move her legs to a comfortable position than to escape my grasp. I kissed her collarbone. Her clavicle, I should say. I never said collarbone to her, the little glimpses of the technical life I lived all around her, but never with her, delighted her too much. I moved along its gently sweeping length until I grazed her throat, my lips edging slowly upwards until I reached the line of her jaw. My kisses moved on towards her chin, my tongue barely reaching her skin before scurrying back inside. It was simply my desire to taste her that drove it out at all. My cheek brushed against her lips and she gently kissed it, making a feeble little sound that for some reason has stuck in my memory. I try now to recreate it, but perhaps only the geometry of her lips could produce that bare little smacking that affected me so disproportionately to its intent.

I placed my hand behind her thigh and lifted her leg until it was wrapped behind me. She squeezed me to her with her calf and I thrust back against her, my hardness already apparent. I moved my left leg outside of her right so she could press herself against my thigh, the movements of her body as she let herself twist into me aroused me perhaps more than it did her. I dragged my teeth along her shoulder drawing from her a little gasp that demanded more discipline than I could ever claim. I crushed my lips against hers, my hand came behind her neck and forced her to kiss me, which she did for the barest instant before forcing me away. She began to mouth the usual bit about boundaries that never meant for me to stop, but simply for me to help convince her of a technical fidelity to some distant boy. She delighted too much in my obvious desire for her to even feign the anger she so clearly did not feel. I pulled back, made a sound of exasperation I did not have to fake, and stood. She followed me to her feet, draping her arms around my neck and looking into my eyes with the confounding knowledge of her power over me, and the multifaceted pleasure of self-denial, novelty and lust.

I walked to my bedroom, trailing her behind me, her wrist gently bound by my hand. I laid her prone on the bed, and began working my hands over her back, kneading her flesh in the manner I had learned over the past several weeks, looking down upon her contented face. It enraged me to see the smile on her proscribed lips, happily victorious over this boy who would do whatever she signaled she wanted. Who would struggle to kiss her, accept her rejection, only to embrace her again; the superiority and condescension of her lightly closed eyes, secure in the knowledge that I would go precisely as far as she wanted, and no further. I grabbed her without pretence of gentleness, laying her on her back, her fluid body toying with the eroticism of submission. One more game. She opened her eyes and looked back at me, a little smirk showing she knew she still had power, knew this gesture to be as empty as the others. I kissed her hard on the lips again, and pressing her against the bed, did not let her pull away.

"Stop," she managed, her voice muffled by my kiss. I pressed my lips harder against her. I squeezed her wrists as hard as I could, hoping to hear a little squeal of pain. "Stop," she said to me, "we can't do this."

"Lauren," the fierceness of my own voice surprised me into a pause she likely took as dramatic. "I know how badly you want to be taken. How desperately you want to feel me against you without these", I pinched her skirt, "between us. You want to be my possession, something completely mine, and I know..." Here, aroused beyond control by my own demanding soliloquy, I kissed her again, breathily, my desire usurping both my words and my movements. "And I know how you crave it, ache for it. You want to be owned like Mike never could."

This last swipe at her boyfriend was founded on nothing, for I knew little more than his name and his girlfriend, but at the end she lifted her head and kissed me, hard and deep, my tongue finally meeting hers, my hand grabbing the firm swell of her butt and forcing her against me. She writhed against my hip bone as I pulled her shirt over her head, breaking our kiss. My lips trailed down her ribs, counting each one, circling back up along her breasts before returning again to her lips that now made no secret of their desire.

I began to undo my pants, and Lauren's hands, fervent, pressed against mine in an effort to speed their removal. Once I had undone the button she pulled them down, taking my boxers with them to my ankles, then off completely. I bunched her skirt about her waist, not willing to spend the time that removing it would have required. I pulled her white underwear, suggestive for all their innocent simplicity, to the side, and slid my fingers inside her.

She was incredibly wet, and the feeling of finally being within her, of feeling her body surround even this part of me, overwhelmed me. I wanted nothing more than to control her, to use her to satisfy the myriad urges she had spent weeks cultivating. She gasped and pressed against the heel of my hand as I began to move my fingers in her, using the "come here" motion with my index and middle that had worked so well on that other girl, long ago. She felt incredible, alive and young and desperate for my touch. My lips traveled again downwards, barely making contact with her clit as she lifted her hips off the bed to force me against her. I began tonguing her wetness, her taste and her texture making me ever harder as her hand, intertwined with my hair, pressed me closer. She pressed hard, gasping as my fingers quickened to the tempo of my tongue. Her sigh, her arching back, the small discrete pressures of each of her fingertips: it overwhelmed. I climbed up several feet on the bed and held myself on my elbows over her ready, supine (another favorite word of hers, one whose sound and saying is almost as sexy as its sense) form. She wrapped her slender fingers around me, and guided me inside of her.

I cannot hope to describe the feeling of finally satisfying my lust for Lauren as I slowly slid into her, the gentle flesh giving way just as I had fantasized. A crude but ecstatic part of my brain rejoiced in how tight she felt around me, the smooth warm pressure of her body surrounding mine. The reader will surely recognize that I took a great deal of pleasure from the idea of her, from the abstract lust she planted in me and fed upon. It is this, perhaps, that words can capture. The only sense that can render the actual feeling of her body, so young and wanting, so overcome with the desire I too felt, is touch. Tired superlatives, used so freely and with so little substance, can no longer do justice to the sensation of sliding skin and tensing muscles that consumed my entire consciousness then. All my attention, all my thought, focused on those signals finding origin in my stomach pressed against hers, my hand on her thigh, my lips' short kisses rushed between inhalations of surprise at the pleasure managing to exceed expectations which were certain of their own hopeless and unattainable excess.

There had been other girls, one even whom I had loved (of that I am still certain), but all had managed to disappoint the idealized predictions of my precoital youth. As I wrapped my arms around Lauren's thighs and lifted her, standing up off my bed while she clung to me ever more tightly, moving against me ever more intensely, all were exceeded. She whispered to me that she was coming, and I squeezed her tighter, using my strength to help her press into me, moving her against me as she came. I dug my fingertips into her firm flesh, feeling myself come as I felt her finish. The prostatic pulsing was powerfully immediate, made so by the pressure of her fingers, which found their way just in time. I came as deeply inside of her as I could, hearing the barest gasp as I filled her, pressing against the hidden flesh that marked the end of what she could take. My teeth bit hard into her shoulder, and she replied with the high-pitched sound of prurient pain. Her fingers clawed my back, drawing with the sharp sting of her nails pinpricks of blood I found the next morning. The true hurt of it, the knowledge that it was more than the threat of pain or a shallow game of taboo, caused me to gasp, angered me until I wanted to hurt her back, and enraged me with lust to the point where I would. I threw her to the bed and saw in her eyes, beneath the real fear of what I would do, the smug excitement that she had again played me so well. She ached for what I was about to do to her, and my knowledge of that only made me take hold of her more roughly as I pinned her to the bed.