tagMatureWhat If?

What If?

byteachmetonight©

Her name is Kathleen, but her lover calls her Kitty. She is a woman, mature and experienced of life, with lines on her face left by trials over the years – marriage, children arriving, children leaving, and children coming back. And then divorce, loneliness, but a gradual return to strength. She is not one to give up. But some of those lines, in fact, are from laughter, plain and simple, and full of joy. It is the laughter that helped her overcome the hardships and allowed her to maintain her tenderness for others and a sense of self.

And yes, her body has softened, but her spirit is firm and capable of much love. He is so proud, so happy that this woman's love is his. Her eyes are auburn; he calls them green. Her hair is blonde; to him, it's spun gold. Her breasts are ample, soft, and ripe, and they suckle him. Her laugh begins brightly and trails off into quietness – a tenor saxophone in the closing notes of a ballad. And he yearns for her when they are apart. And he yearns for more of her when they are together, whether holding hands, or locked in passion, wetting each other's sex.

And when they are apart, he asks, "What if?" What if he were to bring his lips close to hers on a moonlit boardwalk? Would she kiss softly at first, wetting his lips with her tongue before kissing more fully, or would she thrust her tongue aggressively into his mouth like phallus into vulva?

What if he were to suck on her fingers? Would they be flowery sweet with the fragrance of her perfume – "Faraway" – that what it's called – or would they be creamy musky, with the fragrance of the sex hole from which she'd just withdrawn her fingers? Whatever the taste, she would surely probe the insides of his mouth, stroking his tongue, and lapping up the saliva that she made to run down his chin. Her tongue would find its own way along his neck, leaving a silver trail of wetness, and end up in his ear. Her tongue would flutter in and out between whispered words that are at once crude and alluring. And then she would reciprocate, sucking on the fingers of one of his hands as the other explored the full length of the crevice between her legs. Sometimes he fantasizes that the fingers of his two hands would meet, deep, deep inside his Kitty – how much deeper can a man enter a woman? And of course, she would swap fingers once she'd licked his fingers clean of her.

What if he were to kneel between her thighs as she sat on a sofa, legs apart? Would he first lick, suck, nibble those nipples, large, engorged, and erect and listen as her girlish sighs became the throaty moans of a woman in heat? Or would he plunge his face into the crotch of her panties and find that his Kitty had soaked them through? He would then have to suck the fabric of her panties to wring out her essence. And although she later gives him her panties to remember her by, it is never enough. He just ends up yearning for more of his Kitty. No, there is no choice of nipple or panty; he would simply taste both and she would end up nude, mouth open, nipples hard, and thighs spread to reveal her womanhood. Yes, her womanhood.

Even when she stands with legs together, the split of her vulva is visible through her sparse hair and her delicate inner lips pout as though they were emerging free of the outer ones. Now, with her legs apart, the complicated, folded pinkness between her open lips is laid bare. These folds, ribbed and mushy, lead from her under her clit and ends where her inner lips join together and then continue as a single ridge to her anal ring, which he has tasted. That pinkness is punctured by that tiny opening through which her golden essence can escape. Oh, my love.

What if he were to reach over and grab the dozen coral-pink roses that he'd brought her? The roses remind him of her sensuality in the most vivid way. He would say, "See Kitty, this little tiny bud is your clitoris." And she would nod encouragingly as he mouthed the rose bud, pushing it in and out of his mouth and trapping it between his upper lip and tongue. He would then replace the rose bud with her bud, and go on using the same motions while she moaned, creamed, mouthed obscenities, and invoked all the deities above. He would tongue-service her to climax, and then let her subside, lifting his head from her fragrant labia to stare into her green eyes – emeralds, drunken with desire. Those eyes stare back as her mouth approaches, tongue protruding like a lascivious probe with which she will posses him. He waits – receptive. When it reaches him he sucks it into his mouth and they begin licking and sucking on one another furiously, exchanging saliva as though each were spurting semen into the other's mouth.

What if he were to break free from her lips to perform his cunnilingus on the rose petals, which are of the same color as the petals that guard her vagina? He would say, "See Kitty, these petals are your pussy lips. And see how they can be spread to reveal the soft insides?" And with that, Kitty lays back and eagerly lifts her knees toward her nipples as he submerges between her open legs. Now he takes his time, first licking the skin where her legs give way to her vulval mound, enjoying the taste of the cream that spilled to her thighs, wetting the hair around the open gash that is her vagina. After minutes of this teasing around her mound, he sucks her inner lips and toys with them using his tongue. It stretches as he sucks, and as it stretches, it pulls at her clit. Her breathing is rapid as she nears climax, and meanwhile, between her legs, everything pulsates and quivers. Her vagina gapes like a cavern then squeezes shut. Her anus puckers as though readying for a chaste kiss and then protrudes like a large knot. As the gaping, squeezing, clenching, and protruding repeat more and more, her rhythmic moaning gives way to louder grunts. "Unh, unh, unh", says his Kitten, as she raises her hips, holds open her pussy, and demands deep penetration. Everything smells of musk; of sex.

What if he were to insert one finger, teasing around that complicated pinkness before dipping in deeply? She would surely ask for more fingers until the tips of three of his fingers massaged in alteration, her G spot and her cervical mound. Her grunts would give way to a sudden exhalation that melts into a scream as she squeezes with her vagina and clenches with her thighs, vowing not to let him out. "Oh yes, oh fuck, oh my cunt, oh your hairy cock!" His three fingers thrust in and out rapidly at first, but gradually, the thrusting slows and he lets her orgasm subside. They look deeply into each other's eyes. To them this is the hottest, sexiest moment. The moment when each takes stock of the other's desires to plan their next move.

What if Kitty beckoned him to stand in front of her: "Stand up my love. It's my turn to taste." He would obey this velvet command in an instant. His hard dick is level with her mouth. Smiling, she would squeeze the tip gently, but firmly, causing him to drip a little pre-cum. The droplet would land on her tongue, leaving a silver thread extending from his dick-hole to her tongue. Then, still smiling, she would swallow it. Her tongue works its way along his shaft to his balls. She reverses directions until she reaches the tip, where her lips encircle his erection before she sucks him in fully. Her tongue runs rampant and loud rhythmic slurping noises fill the room. It is his turn to groan, grasping both sides of her head and drawing her closer. She looks up at him. And at that moment, Kitty has become his sexual angel with dreamy eyes and sucked-in cheeks. At a loss for words, he simply stammers, "Ahhh, I love you, unh, my love" Not wanting to cum, he would withdraw himself from her mouth, which releases him with a wet pop.

And what if Kitty were to slide her tongue all the way to his balls again? What if she were to suck one entirely into her mouth. Would she caress him gently with her tongue, would she massage them firmly between her tongue and the roof of her mouth, or would she hurt him? She certainly could. And he loves being vulnerable to her Kitty, his woman, his love.

What if, what if, what if? But such questions, asked in solitude, are no longer relevant. Just minutes ago, they had entered the hotel room, and as soon as the door closed behind them, they fell into each other's arms, exchanging desperate kisses and desperate I-missed-you's. It had been months since they were able to touch. The next hours will be filled with the sights, sounds, and smells of two in love, followed by a short, but deep, narcotic sleep from which they will rouse one another to start anew, exploring themes that they had missed earlier. And so tonight, what-if will become what is, my Kitty...

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