Rachel & Her Panties

She lay back on her bed. Rachel's sexiness was all engrossing. Her olive skin covered her limbs like the yellows, greens and tans of Van Gough Dandelion – symbiotic in his shades.

Rachel was truly the sexiest woman that men had ever seen. She was a striking – the kind one writes ballots about.

I was touched by her essence, which shone brilliantly through her physical splendor and like a man exploring a cave, I wanted to uncover its every alcove and crevice.

One evening, Rachel and I were discussing justice. She waxed on about the objectiveness of its truth, and the unbending, uneven material justice was often made from. As she spoke, I listened and gazed unendingly at her, considering her makeup of physical splendor and cerebral giantess.

She embodied the female formula called breauty – beauty + brains. Rachel's rounded, pleasing and engaging breasts blurred together with her words mimicking Plato, and his philosophy on freedom. I had found the ark.

Rachel continued to speak about the often contentious arguments one might hear on freedom for some, and slavery for others. It was not unusual in those times. It is still usual in our times.

Clandestinely, like a shadow shrinking as it entered into the realm of light, I viewed her thighs and saw her silken cloth covering her lips. It was a site that I often prayed to see, and my entire body shifted in its place, as sexual message bolts zapped up into my brain, and circled quickly, to travel back down to my loins.

Images popped into my mind, flooding my clarity with the blurriness of the highway, caught on film at high speed. Thousands of them - many with flesh intertwined, making the one person indistinguishable from the other; puffed vaginas, wetness shooting high up into my mouth; black, mystical eyes, sensual mouths, cocks and breasts, and stomachs and asses, and shoulders and thighs and feet and hands – and souls. Rachel's hands and soul. Rachel's panties.

What occurred next was not in order that the formula of lovemaking prescribed. We sat and looked at one another, rarely blinking and never turning in any other direction. Rachel's words didn't stop; she continued to explain, "I think therefore I am", simplifying its complexities – finding my insides.

"If I am thinking, than I must be. For what could be unreal about thought", Rachel yelled, so pettily and cocksure.

She was in me – differently than any others. She had entered my intimacies – those of nakedness of the body, and that of the guardedness of my mind and my head. I had never felt so laid open for anyone to see, and was terrified at the prospect of her seeing my many foibles, and my nature which was dotted with acned-history and the scars of an oily past.

Rachel's hands were shooting out with every poignant point, she made. The explosion occurring within me was only around me, it seemed, and had not crossed the well- guarded border between us. She hurled her academia-anger at me – "it seemed ridiculous to think that justice can be subjective."

"Listen to me", she yelled and once again partnered up with her physical gesticulations to emphasize her point. Yet this time, her hands lowered as she launched into her A+B=C rules of argumentation. Down they went, lower, they traveled. These long, thin branchlike hands coiffed so delicately, touched her breasts and massaged them, still entirely in sync with her lecture.

'OH I cannot believe that anyone would posture such a position". I had no idea what she was saying. Nor did any of us.

I watched and tried desperately to appreciate her argument. Words were slipping by me at the velocity and swiftness of a comet hurling into Toronto. I panicked at not holding my head, holding kope (as they said in Yeshiva), understanding the concept. I couldn't get it. I just didn't realize where she was going with her argument.

I watched with great curiosity as her hands continued to move down her body, stopping and reversing its path, sometimes squeezing her nipples and other times, adjusting her head back like a praying nun, and bringing her finger of her right hand to her lips….and tasting herself. Licking her finger, sucking it as though it were a part of me.

Rachel raised her skirt, for me. She looked so feminine, girlish, sexual, and needy. This was Rachel, This was it. Most women are girls with a one dimensional way about them.

They might, at times, compartmentalize, so that the school teacher evolves into an nocturnal wench or hore – but Rachel was all of those and dozens of more…. she was able to combine the simpleness of the little girl, with the flaming seductiveness only a woman can muster up; with the confidence of a warring general, and the absolute unassuredness of the teen entering war with him.

I couldn't think. I could smell Rachel, her perfume, her scent, her fragrance and her body mist – and it was light rays, yellow, red, green and blue – the kind one sees on a semi-cloudy day.

It was all too much and I touched her knee. Serpentine, I criss crossed her thigh with the tip of my forefinger. Damn, my cock was pushing against my Rivet jeans (from Western Corral).

No longer were words of the mind flowing from Rachel's mouth; they had been replaced with deep penetrating moans, adjusting in key and rhythm moment to moment. I had never seen Rachel this way, and it struck me that she was many more things than I thought – and that her aura was like that of a chameleon, able to change with her, or perhaps leading the change.

My most holy being – I know in my heart, that God did create some women, who like Moses stood as a model for truth, those women would stand as the universal standard for beauty. Rachel was one of those. But like a good baseball player, who must hit home runs and save dying babies, the beautiful women must be beautiful from inside out.

And this was Rachel. And these were her panties.

I touched them. They were wet. I maneuvered my finger around its front panel, the one covering her cunt. Like the first time I fingered a girl, I felt like a mountain climber once again, trekking up a mountain, then sliding down into its crevice, and then diving into its river. I was touching her outer lips, her inner lips, I was fingering her now, and my digit was up to its third knuckle in fluids.

Faster and deeper and harder I made love to my lecturing, lover as she sat in front of me, sitting on her feet, her toes scrunching 30 times at once. Faster and deeper and deeper and harder I fucked her, finding those points inside of her that carried her to the extremists of pleasures. I found them. I was touching her there – I was making her buck and turn and weave and bounce with everyone of my thrusts.

Faster and faster I went, as she fell back exposing herself more so to me. I never lost touch with her, and met her every thrust against my hand; two fingers were now in her; three fingers were now in her.

I was watching Rachel as she traveled the final leg of our sexy journey. She went higher and higher, and took me there with her as my four fingers made love to this exquisite woman. My muscles were oblivious to the effort. I was lost in my thrusts, but further lost in her face- covered with a cloud, soft as a feather, her eyes wet with the depth of truth and love, and lust.

Rachel was holding her panties to the side allowing me access inside of her. This further aroused me, and the faster I fingered her. With very little warning, and no fanfare, she erupted, in the wildest most existential orgasm I had ever witnessed.

Rachel opened her eyes as wide as I could imagine anyone doing so. She tucked at her panties, tearing them to increase the opening for my fingers; with her other hand she grabbed me by the head pulling me down to her pussy, forcing my lips to her clitoris – she did this with precision, as though it wasn't the first time.

"Lick me, Shakespeare", Rachel demanded. "Suck me, my love, suck me."

As my tongue met her clit, as I sucked on it with poetry and grace; as my fingers continued to make love to her, I was witness to her destiny. I was a fan sitting in the best seat in the house – watching as she came and came and came.

It was fantastic and I wished that all mankind could see the same. Without any break or a moment to take a breath, Rachel came for minutes, only stopping when her poor body could no longer keep up with her vibrant and pulsating brain.

I was soaked from head to foot with her wetness and decided then and there, that I would not shower until tomorrow. I had been anointed by this goddess, and was honoured to be one of the select few to ever actualize my imagination, that fantasy I had each and every time I gazed upon her. And it was only appropriate that I remained covered in this libation until the sun had set and raised once again I had touched Rachel's panties. I had been inside of her, and I had licked her clit.

Friends, I believe that most men would agree, that if each one of us, were to be bestowed three things in life, one would be health, another would be love and no doubt the third would be the chance to make love to one of God's chosen few – a beautiful woman, with exquisite panties.

I had that chance. Her name was Rachel.