|My Real and Terrific Love
Life Pt. II
First Installment in the "Latina" Series of Erotic Tales
by Latina ©
Let me start out by saying that I am a 47-year-old Mexican-American woman who works in electronics. I am 5'2", with a 38-C bust, 28" waist (OK, maybe 30" if I forget to exercise), 36" hips, and maybe 10 pounds overweight. I exercise daily to keep myself fit and attractive, and it shows. I have a fairly-dark complexion that naturally looks like an all-over tan. I have shoulder-length dark hair that is brown, but looks black in all but the most direct sunlight. I have big, deep- brown eyes, and I'm told I have a very warm smile.
My father was a very strict Catholic, and I wasn't allowed to date until I was 21. Living in a one-bedroom house with my parents, four sisters, and a brother, there was no place to sneak off with a boyfriend, anyway. I started dating when I moved out at age 21, and I stayed a virgin until my third boyfriend, when I was 23.
I got married for the first time at age 26. My first husband was only my third lover, and he didn't even like kissing, let alone anything more. One of the best- kept secrets in this post-feminist age is that most women REALLY enjoy sex with a loving, caring partner (one who has a fair idea of what he's doing when it comes to pleasuring a woman's body). Typically, Latina women (like me) are ESPECIALLY fiery and passionate in this regard. I am certainly no exception. So as a hot and sexy Latina, I was frustrated by the lack of sex through 17 years of my first marriage. I can count on the fingers of one hand, the number of times my first husband and I ever had sex, and he never ONCE brought me to orgasm in that entire 17 years! The fiery passion of my youth had just about burned out, when my first husband passed away after a long, lingering illness.
Now, with my second husband, everything is better. He has got to be the most romantic, passionate, and erotic man I have ever met, and I couldn't be happier. The story that follows shows why I am so happy, and I hope that this story will appeal to both men and women.
I was 45 when I met my second and current husband, and after a sexless 17-year first marriage and two years since my first spouse died, I was still practically a virgin, having had sex maybe 12 times in my 45 years, and all of those were JUST sex, not really making love. That is, my limited sex-life had been devoid of most of the affections and emotions implied in the expression "making love." And at age 40, husband #2 WAS a virgin when we met, although, as I would discover, his inexperience did not mean that he lacked romance, desires, and skills. Luckily, even though my youthful passion was almost extinguished by my past experiences, I still have my youthful looks, including long, dark (almost black) shoulder-length hair, smooth dark skin that naturally looks like a tan (an inheritance from my Mexican ancestry), dark and shapely legs that look quite long for my height (I'm only 5'2"), and soft but firm 38-C breasts.
My looks were just one of many things that would make my new husband attracted enough to me, to turn HIM on, while also reigniting my OWN lost passions. But I am getting ahead of myself in this story.
It took me a year to pull myself together after my first husband's funeral, and then I joined a local dating service. My idea was that I would just find some men to socialize with, just get out of the house and have a fun evening once in a while, nothing too serious, and no physical involvement. Or so I thought.
The dating service has each member fill out a personal profile about his or her interests, education, career, and what sort of relationship they are looking for. I had found a few mildly-interesting profiles, and some of them turned me down, but I had gone out on a few dates. Most of the men I met turned out to be real jerks. I accepted their smoking and heavy drinking, even though I did not like it, just so I would occasionally have a date on a weekend. I couldn't see myself becoming very intimate with any of them, much less becoming serious enough to marry one of them. I did let myself be talked into sleeping with one of these dates, my first lover since my husband died, but sex with him was awkward, clumsy, and slightly painful, so I resolved to keep all future dates strictly platonic: go out and have fun, but no romance.
As I looked through the books of men's written profiles, I kept going back to one that somehow had me intrigued. This man didn't drink or smoke. He had never been married, but was a single dad raising an adopted daughter (he was a legal guardian to his niece, whom he treated as his own daughter). He had a successful career in the same industry as I worked in (computer chips). He shared my interest in history and in ballroom dancing. He sounded like an intelligent and well-educated man. But he owned an antique car, which he and his friends had restored. One of my coworkers had a boyfriend who spent every waking minute in his garage, tinkering with his old car, and rarely had time for her. I feared that this man would be the same way, so I kept flipping past his profile. And yet, something made me keep coming back to it and reading it again.
And then one day, I got a call from the dating service. The fascinating man whose profile I had kept reading and re-reading, wanted my phone number, and the dating service wanted to know if it was OK to give it to him. I was enrolled in a ballroom dance class that would be starting soon, and I was still looking for a partner. His profile said that he liked ballroom dancing, and I figured that he was responding to my ad (in the dating service's newsletter) for a dance partner. So I said, "Sure, give him my number."
A few days later, I had a message on my answering machine when I returned home from work. It was from him. He left me his home phone number, and he asked me to call him back. By that time, I had already found a partner for my dance class, and I had made it clear to this partner that it would be dancing only, I was not interested in a relationship with him. Maybe somewhere deep in the back of my mind, I had told my dance partner this so I would be free to start a relationship with the man whose written profile I just kept looking at.
I called back this man with the intriguing written profile, and this time, I got HIS answering machine. I left a very curt, almost hostile message: "I have already found a partner for my dance class. But thanks for thinking of me."
The next evening, I had a message on my answering machine. "I didn't call you to be your partner in a dance class. I am already enrolled a ballroom dance class, and I am not looking to join another one. I found and read your profile, and I am very interested in YOU. I want to ask you out on a date."
I thought about it. I had found a lot about him to like. But I worried about that damned old car of his. Still, I thought, he couldn't be any worse than my last few dates, and if it didn't work out, so what? I wasn't really looking for a long- term relationship right now anyway. Or so I thought.
The next day, I called him, and we finally got to talk to each other in person, not just one answering machine to another. He told me that he had enjoyed the light humor I had put into my profile (for example, I included a pun on kissing frogs to find a prince, stating that "I appreciate the toad in every prince"). He was amazed at how many interests we seemed to have in common (we both enjoyed jazz and classical music, for example). We even had almost the same birthday (his was just a week after mine). He told me that he wanted to get to know me and my son. In the course of our conversation, I casually mentioned a discipline problem I was having with my son, then age 8. He surprised me by telling me he once had that exact same problem with his 13-year-old niece/adopted daughter at about the same age. He told me how he had handled it, and he reassured me that it was a phase that they outgrow. For the first time, I relaxed and felt comfortable talking to him. Soon, I was telling him about my own childhood, and he was telling me about his. Then we drifted into all sorts of other subjects, and soon, we had been on the phone for two hours.
The next night, he called ME this time. He told me about a problem he was having at work. I told him about a problem I was having at work. I even joked about being a woman with a career, not a career woman. His comments showed me he was really listening to me, without being a jerk by offering an oversimplified solution to my problem, as so many men seem to do. Again, our conversation wandered into a wide array of topics, and again we talked for at least two hours.
These long phone calls to each other now became a nightly ritual, and I couldn't wait to get home from work and talk to him. Hearing his deep, masculine voice always made my heart race a little, while at the same time making me feel calm and relaxed. His mellow voice put me into a contented swoon, washing away all my cares. And the things that he told me convinced me that I had found a true gentleman, a real rarity in today's world. We kept up these daily calls for two months.
Then one day, he told me about an upcoming Fourth of July parade in which he would have his antique car, and he asked me to meet him there. He said that we could go out for dinner afterward.
I was annoyed. Why did he have to spoil everything by reminding me of his antique car, the one thing about him that had always made me reluctant to start a relationship with him? Still, we had invested two months in building-up a telephone friendship, and I knew that another such true gentleman was unlikely to come alomg anytime soon, so I summoned up my courage to ask him where his car stood in the pecking order of his affections. He told me that, a few years ago, he and his friends had invested a lot of their time, and much of his money, in restoring his car, but now that the restoration was finished, he took it to about one parade a month in summer, and none in winter. He had a local shop do regular maintenance on it, because being a substitute dad to his niece took priority over spending time trying to maintain his antique car himself. Raising his niece had helped him to realize that he was more interested in spending time with family than with his car. He had joined the dating service to find a wife and build a family with whom he could spend time. While he had no plans to get rid of his car, and it did give him some fun to have occasional weekend outings with this car, family was top priority with him.
Although I couldn't be absolutely sure, I sensed that he was telling the truth about wanting to spend more time with family than with his car. After all, by now we had about 50 or 60 all-night phone conversations behind us, and he had always been straight-forward with me, he had never lied to me. I could even see that his car might be a fun thing to build family outings around. And if he did start to neglect me or take me for granted, to favor his car over me, I could always dump him. These thoughts reassured me a little, so I agreed to meet him at the parade. But I got to the parade late, and even though he had told me where he would be after the parade, I never did find him. When we spoke on the phone that night, we were both a little disappointed that we still had not met in person, after knowing each other for two months. But hearing his deep baritone voice made me feel a little better.
The Fourth of July was a Thursday that year, the start of a 4-day weekend. The next day, Friday, I took my son swimming at a local pool. So I called my new phone friend that morning, and I asked him if he and his niece would like to meet me and my son right now, at the park next to this pool. I had never felt comfortable enough around any man, since my first husband, to introduce a date to my adopted son. But this man had told me repeatedly that he wanted to get to know both me and my son, and by now I wanted to know both him and his niece/adopted daughter.
I sat under a tree and read a book, while I waited for them to arrive; since it was a hot day, I wore my shortest of short-shorts, with my dark, slender legs crossed in front of me. When he arrived, he didn't comment on my looks, but I noticed that he kept stealing glances at my bare legs, and that made me feel good inside, that even at age 45 I still looked attractive. Sizing him up from head-to- toe as she stood over me, I was not at all disappointed with his looks, either. Not at all. He was 5'10", about 170 pounds, trim and just-slightly muscular, with wavy, well-groomed dark hair that was starting to thin with age. His long, slender toes looked elegant in his open-toed brown sandals, and his brand-new, tight, dark-blue jeans nicely accented his long, slender legs (although I was a little disappointed that he wasn't in shorts, as I was). Best of all, he had the biggest, deepest brown eyes that I had EVER seen! After introductions, our kids both went their own ways. While his niece was swimming, and my son was climbing around on a jungle gym, my date and I sat on a park bench, sharing lunch and casually talking.
Our relationship at this point was still strictly in the platonic stage, and right now, I wasn't looking for anything more than that. Again, or so I thought.
The next day, I invited him and his niece to join me and my son at the beach.
A school friend of his niece also came along. My new male fiend had a big van, so it was easy for him to take us all to the beach. While the three kids played on the beach and shopped at nearby stores, my date and I sat on the beach in our bathing suits, having another of our easy, pleasant conversations.
He looked kind of handsome, in a plain, not a "Brad Pitt" hunky sort of way. While his glasses made him look very smart, even lying on the beach without his glasses, his receding hairline gave him a high forehead that accentuated his intelligence. His chest and legs were slender and muscular, so he obviously exercised regularly, enough to keep himself in nice physical shape, without being obsessive about it.
I couldn't help but to steal admiring glances at his 5'10", 170-pound masculine frame, stretched face-up before me on the beach.
Of course, my prancing around in my own skimpy bathing suit was giving him just as much to admire about me.
As I sat beside him on the beach, I had my slender, dark legs stretched side-by- side in front of me, and I noticed him stealing occasional glimpses at my smooth, dark legs. His lustful gaze looked as if he might be picturing me naked on the beach, with my legs spread wide for him. I would have normally felt this to be an annoying and piggish behavior, but with him, somehow, I didn't mind his fantasizing about me. Maybe I felt this way because he was only looking, while previous dates of a less-gentlemanly sort would have been all over by now. I felt safe and relaxed with him. Without really realizing it, I even began to steal glimpses at his bathing suit, stealthily trying to determine whether my OWN skimpy bathing suit might be making him all big and hard (and I secretly hoped to spot some CLEAR sign that I was making him extremely horny; I guess I needed that reassurance that men still find me sexy in my 40s).
Maybe in my own way, without even realizing it, I was starting to fantasize about him just a little bit myself, too. I closed my eyes, basking in the sun and enjoying a half-asleep daydream. From somewhere way down deep in the back of my mind, my daydream started to picture just him and me on an otherwise-deserted beach, me spreading my outstretched legs wide, my finger-tips reaching inside my swimsuit, putting on a private show for him with my probing fingers in my hot, hungry cunt.
This hazy image faded into me lying naked, spread-legged, face down in the sand, and letting him gaze up into my wet, eager, horny little pussy, right through my ass cheeks. Because we had talked so much on the phone, and we had revealed the deepest details of our personalities to each other before we had ever met in person, somehow, through these misty daydreams, I just KNEW that if I were to give my gentleman friend a sexy show like this in real life, this kind and patient man would turn out to be just the sort of loving, caring man who would reciprocate, by slowly, tenderly kissing me so gently, so lovingly, so sweetly all over my front and back, knowing exactly when, where, and how to touch me, spending HOURS just slowly heating my entire body and soul to boiling desire. Or was that just the heat of the sun on the sand that was warming me so?
Lying on the beach, I continued to fantasize that I was naked just for him, and I daydreamed of what he would do to, for, and with me. Reopening my eyes and gazing at his outstretched form on the sand, I noticed that his moist, tender lips DID look very inviting, as if they could shower my whole sexually-reawakening body with a LOT of fiery passion. I sighed to myself, because his bathing suit, although small enough to show a LOT of hairy leg, was too loose-fitting to tell whether he was getting turned-on, too.
I didn't even know WHY I was starting to vaguely think about him in this sexual way. He had been such a gentlemna all along, and he had never pushed me for romance, let alone for sex; he had asked me for nothing more than my time and friendship. Maybe the fact that he WASN'T pushing me, explains WHY I had begun to wonder about the sexual side of this man's personality. But the kinds of thoughts and mental images I experienced on that beach weren't the real me, not at all. Or were they?
As we sat on the beach, I tried to focus on something other than my hazy, half- formed sexual fantasies, to keep from getting too wet and horny this early in our newly-budding relationship. So I made up a hypothetical question, loosely based on a problem that was typical of those I faced at work, and asked him what he would do in a similar situation. His solution was well thought out and made a lot of sense, and was not at all simplistic. So he had passed my first test.
Next, I told him that I like coffee, and I told him exactly how I like it (two creams, no sugar). I could almost see him mentally storing that information for future reference. For the next half hour, I made sure we discussed a wide variety of topics, so that he might forget what I had said about coffee. Then I asked him to walk down the street and get me a cup of coffee, but I did not remind him how I like it. He came back with the coffee prepared exactly as I had told him earlier. He really had been listening to me. He had passed my second test.
On the way back from the beach, we were stranded when his van broke down 40 miles from home. His water pump had broken. We had my adopted son and his adopted daughter with us, plus one of his daughter's school friends, so it was pretty crowded in the cab of the tow truck on the 40 mile ride home.
His niece's friend had to sit on her lap, and I had to sit on his lap. I sternly told him that although I was sitting on his lap, he was not to get any ideas from this. He respected my wishes, and he behaved as a perfect gentleman on the entire ride home. Although part of me was just a little bit disappointed and mildly offended, because my sitting on his lap was not causing his manhood to grow and press up into my ass, his courtesy to me meant that he had definitely passed my third test.
His usual mechanic's shop was too far from his house or mine to get any of us home from there. So I told him that my usual mechanic was just two miles from my house. Although it was late, and we were all getting tired, we could all walk to my house from there, and I would drive them home. When we got to the repair shop, it turned out that the rented garage where he keeps his antique car was just 4 blocks from my usual repair shop. So we walked just 4 blocks, instead of two miles, and he drove us home in his antique car. He sat my son beside him in the front seat, and the rest of us got in the back. My son really seemed to enjoy the ride in this antique. This car was not really a convertible; it had NEVER had a roof from the day it was built. The cool summer evening breeze in the open-top car felt good after lying on the hot sand all day. And there was something about this man's profile beside my son's, in the moonlight, that warmed my heart and made me smile. Neither of us knew that the other felt this way at the time, but our calm teamwork in getting safely home had made us both very attracted to each other.
I went into my house and put my son to bed. His niece and her friend went inside to call her friend's mother, to let her know that they would be home soon. I then came out to the garage, where I had left him waiting. Much to my surprise, when I entered the garage, he hugged me close, and he gave me a long, passionate kiss, with just a little bit of tongue (without being pushy and forceful about it). It took all of the will-power that I could muster, just to keep from melting into his arms--being only our second date, it was too soon for that.
He then told me that so many of the women he had dated before, would have panicked over his van breaking down, and would have berated and belittled him for not having more reliable transportation. But I had surprised him by calmly working WITH him to get us out of our problem, and he appreciated that, appreciated ME, so much, that he had simply no longer been able to resist his growing urge to kiss me, right there in my garage. So saying, he kissed me again, once more turning his kiss into a soft, light, sweet, and unaggressive French kiss.
I was surprised, not only at how good his gently-probing tongue felt in my mouth, but also that he felt this way about me. I had thought that, after our misadventure, he might think me a jinx, and he might not want to see me again. As his tongue continued to play in my mouth, I felt that there was starting to be real love, affection, and emotion behind his kisses, not just lust. I returned his French kisses, my own love and passion starting to build inside of me now. As our French kiss lingered, I began to desperately want that fine, long, strong tongue of his on my LOWER set of lips (the ones surrounding my pussy). Since I was already feeling his tongue exploring all over the inside of my mouth, it didn't take a great leap of my imagination to close my eyes, and to begin to vaguely form a somewhat blurry picture in my mind, of his talented tongue massaging the interior of my already-juicy slit.
Where were these thoughts coming from? Were these vaguely-stirring fantasies really the real me? After all, I had not had those kinds of feelings in many years, and even now, my lustful fantasies were only vaguely stirring awake again. He had been such a gentleman, he had really given me no cause to think of him in this way. Anyway, even if I had fully wanted to (which I'm not sure I did just yet), I could not have acted upon my reawakening sexuality on that night, however. We both feared that my son, or his daughter and her friend, might walk in on us at any moment. I gazed out my window and watched, with a mixture of sadness at his leaving, and joy at the fun we had shared that day, as he, his niece, and her school friend drove off in his antique car.
For our third date of this long weekend, on the next night, he invited me to meet him at his favorite Chinese restaurant. This would be our first in-person (as opposed to over-the-telephone) date without our children. I drove to the restaurant, and he was waiting for me outside the door. The restaurant was a little more elegant than your typical family restaurant, but not so extravagant as to make me feel that he was trying to be flashy to impress me. He ordered his favorite, scrambled eggs with shrimp, and I ordered a vegetable plate with broccoli, snow peas, black mushrooms, and water chestnuts. He gave me half of his meal, and I gave him half of mine, so we would both have more variety in our dinners.
After this tasty dinner, we went to a movie. During the previews, he whispered a light-hearted joke to me, and I laughed. Instantly, I covered my mouth, to keep my laughter from disturbing the other theatre patrons. He leaned over and whispered to me that he loves the way my eyes crinkle and sparkle when I laugh. It took all of my will-power not to lean-in and kiss him, not to place his hand over my breast. But a crowded theatre, at the start of a movie, was neither the time nor the place for that. Besides, it was WAY too early in our relationship for me to become aggressive and risk scaring him away. And where WERE these sexy thoughts of mine coming from? I knew that I didn't have a dirty mind, or at least I hadn't in many years!
We held hands all through the movie, but he never tried to get fresh with me. What a gentleman! After the movies, he gave me a sweet, almost-completely non- sexual, kiss on the lips and peck on the cheek. Then we each got in our cars and drove back to our separate homes. That night, as I drifted to sleep, I faintly remembered his passionate French kisses on our second date, and once again, vague dreams invaded my mind, of what his tongue might feel like on my wet and eager pussy. I wondered if he knew that he was already starting to get to me like this. And I wondered whether I might be having the same impact on his own libido. Anyway, on this night, my cunnilingus fantasy of him was much more vivid and focused, than on our first night (after the beach), and soon I was very vividly picturing me riding up and down, and rocking back and forth, atop his face.
That night, I let my eager fingers and my trusty vibrator release my stirring passions and growing excitement about my new man. I let the vibrator's soft humming, deep inside of me, lull me to sleep as I dreamt about him. I had bought this vibrator to fill-up the lonely nights after my first husband died, and sadly, this dildo had given me more attention and satisfaction than my first husband ever had.
Although I had seldom used my vibrator, it had seen the inside of my pussy more often than my first husband's fingers, tongue, or cock had. As my fantasies about my NEW man grew more vivid, the frequency of my vibrator sessions increased from weekly to nightly, then to several times a night. I knew it wouldn't be long before I would HAVE to replace my vibrator with the real thing.
Monday, after our multiple dates over this four-day holiday weekend, I made my usual weekly visit to the dating service. But somehow, I could not bring myself to look at any of the written profiles. That's when I realized, I was simply having so much fun with this man, and maybe even starting to fall in love (not to mention in lust) with him just a little. I felt that right now, no other man interested me. So I left the dating service's office, without reading a single profile that day.
On our fourth date, the following Friday, I would finally get my chance to act on my growing fantasy of feeling his tongue on my too-long-neglected pussy.
We both made arrangements for baby-sitters for our kids, and just the two of us went out dancing at a club just 3 blocks from his house. We both enjoy ballroom dancing, which is one of the things that brought us together in the first place.
When the dancing ended, I asked him to take me to his home, so that we could talk and get to know each other even better. He agreed. He had a nicely-furnished two- bedroom house (one room for himself and one for the neice whom he had adopted). The dark imitation-wood-panel walls were a bit dreary for my tastes, but otherwise it was a surprisingly nice house for a bachelor's place.
Despite my vague stirrings on our two previous dates, and my vibrator fantasies of him, I really was not consciously thinking about sex at that moment. I only wanted to talk some more. With the volume turned low, he played some relaxing, mellow background jazz on his stereo, as we sat on his couch and talked. I guess sub-consciously, I had dressed as sexily as possible before going out dancing, wearing my shortest skirt and my most-daring plunging neckline. Once inside his house, without even thinking about it, I eased backward onto his couch in as inviting a way as I could. In retrospect, and without sounding too vain about it, it would be fair to say that as I sat back on his couch and talked, I looked every bit the hot, sexy, sizzling Latina that (thanks to his obvious love and lust for me) I now confidently know myself to be!
So I guess it should be no surprise that, soon enough, our talking turned to soft kisses. I'm not even sure who kissed who first that evening--maybe I planted the first kiss on him, or maybe he did on me. All I know is that, once his gentle lips softly pressed up against mine, I softly returned his kisses. His kisses were so loving, and turned me on so much, that soon I turned into the aggressor, pushing him flat on his back on his couch, and climbing on top of him to kiss him with a ferocious hunger.
On those rare occasions when my first husband had ever bothered to kiss me, I had always kissed with my eyes closed, and I started out that way this time, too. But then something inside me made me flutter my eyelids open for just the briefest of moments. His big, brown eyes were gazing soulfully into mine. I fluttered my eyes open again, and I left them open long enough for him to look deeply and passionately into my soft, brown eyes. His loving gaze was beginning to stir long- forgotten feelings deep in my soul.
Now his eyes fluttered closed, and suddenly I was left looking at him, without him returning my gaze. Just as his eyes closed, he slightly increased the pressure of his lips against mine, and his left arm wrapped around behind my back, to pull me closer to him. I closed my eyes again, and I opened my mouth just enough to slowly lick my tongue around the outside of his thick, soft, tender lips.
He opened his mouth just slightly, and he let the top of his tongue slowly, playfully lick the underside of my protruding tongue, in mid-air between us.
Now he pulled my lips even closer into his, and his tongue slowly snaked into my mouth. I let my tongue slide into his mouth, exploring his teeth, the roof of his mouth, and his tongue. Our tongues began a slow, ritual dance around each other, deep in each other's mouth. Then we began darting our tongues in and out of each other's mouth, slowly at first, then with ever-increasing rapidity.
With my eyes closed, I upped the ante on my fantasies of him. Instead of picturing his tongue on my pussy, as I had been doing all week, I now imagined that his tongue darting in and out of my mouth, was really his cock darting in and out of my pussy. I began wondering what his cock looked like, and what it would feel like if it really was darting in and out of me the way his tongue was doing in my mouth. As we continued to French kiss, somehow I knew, I just KNEW, that soon, very soon, this very night, I would fulfill both of my growing fantasies of him: feeling his tongue against my throbbing clit, and slipping his cock deep inside of my slick, wet pussy.
With my eyes shut and our tongues entwined, I now pictured him standing naked before me, with his long, thick, hard cock jutting straight out in front of him, ready and eager to plunge into my growing wetness. At this point, my fantasy was still rather vague, because I had yet to discover for myself whether his cock was long or short, wide or narrow, straight or curved. Somehow, it didn't matter just then, because I knew that I would be seeing the object of my desires soon enough. And whatever size and shape it turned out to have, I instinctively knew that I would find his hard cock pleasing to the eye and to the touch.
I had not had such thoughts in a great many years, as they had always been too frustrating, knowing that these fantasies would not become fulfilled with my first husband, nor with any of my recent dates. I tried to push the incessant, sexy images of him out of my mind, but his insistent tongue in my mouth just kept making my fantasies increasingly more vivid.
I don't know how long we had been kissing and letting our tongues entangle with each other. But we finally reached the point where we both had to pause, to come up for air. We had both been so lost in our ever-building passion, that we had forgotten that his stereo was playing. But now we could both hear a wickedly- seductive jazz saxophone solo playing. I think this seductive sax solo was heating us both up just a little more.
I'm not sure what HE was thinking just then, but I kept remembering the hundreds of hours we had spent talking to each other on the phone, getting to know every detail of each other's personality and philosophy. I fondly recalled the fun we had shared on four dates. I thought about how rare a gentleman he was, and how much I admired and respected him. I thought about how I wanted to show him, in EVERY possible way, how deeply I care about him. And I hoped that he, too, would want to show me, in EVERY possible way, how very much he cared about me. I had absolutely NO reservations by now, about letting the romance and passion of the moment, take us in any direction that we might choose to go.
I took advantage of this brief lull in our passion to slowly unbutton my sheer white blouse. I had unbuttoned just one button, when he began kissing the left side of my neck, and then moved around to kiss the front of my neck, and down my exposed skin where I had opened my first button. So that was his game: his kisses were going to follow down each new area of exposed skin as I unbuttoned each button. I liked this game.
As I opened-up more of my top, his kisses followed down my cleavage.
So I unbuttoned the second button. Sure enough, his kisses moved down lower along my newly-exposed skin. I kept slowly unbuttoning my blouse, and his kisses kept slowly trailing down after each opened button.
When the last button was opened, I pulled my blouse wide open, exposing my sheer, lacy black bra (and my bare stomach) under my blouse.
He kissed my tummy, then he began working his kisses back upward again.
He lifted my bra straps off of my shoulders and onto my arms. Then he pulled my left bra cup down, tucking it under my breast, and he began licking and nibbling on my now hard, protruding left nipple. Now he brought my right bra cup down under my right breast, and he began his licks and gentle nibbles on my right nipple as well. He told me that he had always fantasized about finding a woman with wide areolas, and now that he had noticed that mine are about three inches across and reddish brown, he just couldn't resist feeling and tasting them.
With my bra tucked safely under my breasts, he could no longer resist me in my stunning black undergarments. He started slowly and gently rubbing my breasts, especially lingering around my wide areolas and my long, stiffening nipples. He also got much more eager with his kisses and his tongue. Almost in spite of myself, I softly let out a long, low moan. My moaning emboldened him to reach around behind me, and to unclasp the three tiny metal hooks holding my bra on.
My lacy black bra softly fell onto his couch, leaving my frilly white blouse wide open with nothing underneath, and giving his mouth an unobstructed path to my breasts now.
I couldn't believe how wonderful it felt as he kissed and slowly licked my big, sweeping curves UNDER my breasts. I was beginning to lose control of the situation, but I didn't mind, as I completely trusted him by now, so I allowed myself to moan again.
Through my open shirt, he generously showered his soft kisses on and under my breasts.
As he continued his tantalizing kisses on and around my breasts, I slowly unbuttoned and took off his shirt, revealing a smooth-skinned but hairy chest. Now that I was getting naked, I really enjoyed leveling the playing field, by starting to strip him, too. Under his shirt was a hairy, well-developed, but not overly muscular, chest. Just the way I like a man's chest to be. As if it wasn't enough that he had all the mental, emotional, and spiritual qualities I had been seeking in a man all of my life, now it looked as if he also possessed all of the PHYSICAL attributes I wanted, as well. Or at least he had the chest. Oh, that beautiful, manly chest! What other physical attributes, I now wondered, did he also possess, to meet my lifelong image of the perfect man for me? I had certain, umm, specifications in mind; would this be the man who would finally match or exceed those sexy, longed-for, distinctively-masculine features that I so craved?
Leaning over him on the couch, my hands began slowly and gently rubbing his magnificent, irresistible chest, and stroking his wonderfully soft chest hair. As I did this, he began unfastening my skirt. But before he could remove my skirt, I grabbed his hand, and we both stood up and led each other to his Queen-Size bed.
Naked from the waist up, I lay down on top of his bedspread, closed my eyes, and let him finish removing my skirt. He raised my knees, gently spreading my legs apart, and he eased my sheer, silky black panties part-way down my dark legs, just enough to make my hungry pussy fully-accessible to his fingers and tongue. When I felt the rush of warm air against my now-exposed pussy, my pussy lips began to open up all on their own. I opened my eyes now, so I could watch every move that he was about to make on my horny little twat. Turning my head to my right, I noticed for the first time, his huge walk-in closet. It consisted of two sets of folding double-doors, bordered in brass trim. Each of these four closet doors had a floor-to-ceiling mirror on it, so that one entire wall of his bedroom was one giant mirror. As the evening progessed, I would see every detail of our lovemaking in those mirrors, and that just excited me even more.
"If you've never, umm, BEEN with a woman before, why do you have floor-to-ceiling mirrors?" I challenged. I wondered whether he used those mirors to watch himself during solo sessions.
"They came with the house. The previous owner's wife had them installed, and I never bothered removing them. Why, do they bother you? Because I can take them down if you like."
Before I could answer, he slid his long body all the way down to the foot of his bed, and he began kissing my right foot, working his way from the ankle, around to my toes, sucking one toe at a time into his mouth. He then moved to my left foot, again kissing my ankle, kissing all along my foot, kissing my toes, and sucking my toes one by one into his mouth.
Scientists say that every nerve in the human body is connected to a nerve in the feet and toes. Maybe that's why his kissing and sucking my toes seemed to have a direct connection to dampening the interior of my pussy.
I looked in the mirrors again, and I watched him kissing my naked form. I was starting to feel VERY sexy, for the first time in many years. So now I answered his earlier question. "Don't you DARE take those mirrors down! I LOVE watching you caress me." Now he began rubbing his left hand up my left leg, from my foot on up. His kisses trailed up my leg, about six inches behind his hand. Every once in a while, he would remove his hand from my leg, and bring it down to intertwine his fingers between the toes of my left foot, but then he would put his hand back where he left off, and he would stroke higher up my left leg, his kisses always following up my leg about 6 inches after his hand.
When his hands reached halfway up my thighs, he grasped my lacy black panties firmly in both hands, pulling and stretching them out away from my skin. He then reached inside to rub his fingers over the outside of my pouting pussy lips.
My pussy lips are surrounded by thick, dark hair, and my outer lips were already puffy with my lust. Luckily for me, HIS fingers, not my own, were taking care of my needs. His gentle, expert touch made my insides juice-up with desire for both his tongue and his cock.
Finally, he slid my soaking-wet panties the rest of the way down my naturally- dark legs, and past my bare feet. My panties fell off of his bed, and landed softly on his carpeted bedroom floor. His hand came to rest on the outside of my by-now-quivering pussy, as his kisses caught up to my inner thigh. But his mouth did not yet touch my pussy.
With my legs spread wide open, I began massaging my breasts, arching my back, and swaying my hips in my desperation to finally feel his tongue against my hardening clit. But instead of starting to eat me out, as my twitching body language so loudly proclaimed that I wanted him to do, he moved his hand and his mouth down to my right ankle, and he began the same slow, teasing stroking and kissing up my right leg, that he had just completed when going up my left leg. His heating me up, and yet continuing to make me wait, was the most exquisite blend of pleasure and torture that I had ever felt.
Again, he paused from time to time to intertwine his fingers between the toes of my right foot, then he resumed his tantalizing stroking and kissing precisely where he had left off. Again, his hand came to rest on the outside of my pussy, as his kisses caught up to the top of my inner thigh.
Now he began playing with the thick triangle of brown hair between my legs, stroking the hair like the fingers of a comb passing through it, and curling the longer strands around his fingers. I felt like a cliff-diver leaning way out over a rocky shore, ready to dive off, to release my pent-up energy, but he was not ready to let me jump off the cliff into the sea of climax just yet. He seemed determined to hold me perched, poised, teetering right on the edge of that orgasmic cliff, for as long as he could.
I squirmed and wiggled beneath his teasing, and I moaned for him to lick me. But he still continued to ignore me, to torment me, letting his exploring fingers and tongue touch me all around, but not yet directly on, my by-now desperately-horny pussy.
Now he knelt on his knees between my spread legs on the bed, and he slid his long, thin middle finger (which reminded me of the skilled fingers on the hands of a pianist or a doctor), deep inside of my dripping pussy. This still wasn't the tongue that I craved, but at least SOME part of him was finally making contact with my hot and lusty eager-beaver. As he slid first one, and then two fingers deep inside of my tight, hot, dripping-wet pussy, his thumb gently rubbed and pressed against my throbbing clit. He might not be a doctor or a pianist, but I now realized that his long fingers were clearly as skilled, in their own way. My breathing became heavier, and he was reawakening long-dormant feelings from my youth. My rekindled lust slowly washed over my body, starting with a tingling in my toes, and working its way up in waves. But he still would not let that gathering wave fully crest in me just yet.
My growing lust, simultaneously advancing yet held in check, centered around where his talented, probing, exploring fingers were so patiently, tenderly, and lovingly ministering to the needs of my starving pussy.
He stretched himself out along the bed, face-down, his legs stretched out in thin air beyond the foot of the bed. If you were to have looked down on his bed at that moment, you would have seen, in a straight line, my head propped up on some pillows, my exposed breasts, my legs, then his head between my thighs, his back, his cute and firm ass, and the backs of his long, muscular legs.
He cupped both of his hands under the cheeks of my ass, and he pressed his face against my desperately hungry pussy. He started with kisses on my outer pussy lips, and around my still partly-hidden clit, but even now, the tongue that I had craved since our first French kiss, was scrupulously avoiding me. Writhing in desperation, I again moaned for him to lick me. His tongue FINALLY darted out of his mouth, and that beautiful tongue of his at last began working its own special brand of magic on me.
His marvelous tongue, which had explored my mouth in my garage on our second date, now rolled slowly up and down along the outside of my pussy lips, and then licked at my love button. I had waited for this moment all week, I had dreamed about it, fantasized about it, rubbed my vibrator all over my clit, while desperately wishing to replace the vibrator with his tongue. And now I was at long last actually feeling his tongue playfully lapping against my pussy lips, and all over my interior. The sensations that he was stirring in me were more exquisite than I had even imagined, than I could EVER have imagined.
But then it got even BETTER! His teeth began a very gentle nibbling on my outer lips, and then moved up to my clit, which was just beginning to stiffen and arise out of hiding. His licking and nibbling against my growing clit felt absolutely and indescribably incredible! I was getting so excited by now, that the outside of my pussy lips were almost as heavily coated with my lusty dew, as my interior walls were.
Beads of my gathering lust were beginning to seep out of me, and to coat the outside of my wide-open pussy. Surprisingly, his nibbling down there was not at all painful, just pure pleasure. He told me that he wanted only to please me, and for someone with no previous sexual experience, he did a terrific job. His fingers gently pried my outer pussy lips open, and his tongue darted deep inside of me, licking the gathering moisture from my inner walls.
I don't know where the idea started that hairy pussies are hard to eat. He seemed to just love eating me out, right through my thick pubic hair. He even told me he hates shaved pussies: as far as he was concerned, the hairier the better. He told me that he had long fantasized about having to push the hair aside with his fingers and tongue, just to get at the soft, fleshy pink folds of womanhood underneath. He said that a lot of hair "down there" makes a woman look more mature and sophisticated, not like a little school-girl. Luckily for both of us, my dark bush was and is pretty damned hairy! Knowing how hairy he likes it, of course, I now keep my furry patch as long and as thick as I can, while maintaining my triangle of pubic hair neat and trim enough to look pretty, whenever I seductively saunter naked toward him.
My breathing grew heavier, and my passion built from deep inside me in wave after ever more excited wave, as his lips, tongue, and teeth continued to relentlessly work me into total erotic frenzy. He told me that he had learned how to please a woman like this by reading letters from women in Penthouse Forum, and by watching couples-oriented X-rated movies. He told me that he even used to practice licking and sucking, using his pillow held in his arms, so he would be prepared for the day when he would finally get the chance to try-out his tongue maneuvers on a real, live woman. I'm not sure that I completely believed his story, that this is how he learned to be so good to a woman. But he certainly SOUNDED sincere, and I knew from his words and actions that he was still a virgin, so maybe he WAS telling me the truth.
Anyway, at that moment, I didn't really care HOW he had learned his techniques. I could only think how good his tongue felt on my engorged, throbbing, horny clit, and how grateful I was feeling for being the beneficiary of the knowledge, skill, and care that he obviously possessed in such great abundance, and was so lovingly sharing with me at that moment. Of course, I didn't actually say to him that I was grateful for his having taken the time to learn how to pleasure a woman, but then, I didn't HAVE to say anything. I just KNEW that he could tell from my smile, and my body language, not to mention my writhing and moaning, exactly how grateful I really was at that moment. He told me that my blissful smile reminded him of the cryptic smile on Leonardo DaVinci's Mona Lisa. I felt flattered by this comparison, as I remembered reading somewhere that DaVinci had painted the famous angelic smile, based on his memory of the subject's face at the very moment that the painter/scientist had brought her to the peak of orgasmic ecstasy.
Yes, done right, eating-out a hot pussy like mine produces a beatific Mona Lisa smile on the recipient's face, not to mention opening wide the gates to her paradise. At least, my man's skilled lips and tongue always produce both of these effects with ME!
Thanks to the slow, loving care that his highly-talented fingers and tongue were now so gently and patiently bestowing upon me, the inner walls of my pussy were now very slick and wet, and my G-spot's creamy ejaculate was now stirring from deep inside of me, and bubbling up around where he was licking my clit. My hips and ass began slowly rocking up off the bed and back down again. Soon, my hips began swaying up and down more rapidly with each of his tongue's licks. I wrapped both of my dark, shapely legs around his back, holding his head and neck in a tight scissor-lock, in the unlikely event that he should even THINK of easing his eager and talented tongue off of my straining clit. I continued rocking up off the bed and back down again, even more rapidly than before. My legs began pushing him away and pulling him closer, in rhythm with the motion of both his tongue and my gyrating hips.
Now he gently clenched his teeth onto the hard nub of my excited little clit, gently wrestling it in the same playful way that a puppy tries to wrestle a juicy bone out of your hand. His clit-chewing finally signalled to my metaphoric diver, that it was time to jump off over the cliff. My passion began to gush rapidly, and then slowed to an ooze, from around my clit, flowing slowly and thickly onto his tongue. My liquid passion was now flowing out of me at about the speed and consistency of Hawaiian lava that is starting to cool, an apt comparison of how I felt after my erotic eruption. My warm lava was steadily dribbling creamily into his mouth now.
I've read that it is a rare woman who comes so thickly and heavily every time, as I do. But then, I have that rare gentleman who can and does slowly, patiently, lovingly coax this heavy volume of liquid passion out of me every time. As I continued to ooze my clit's and my G-spot's combined passions into his mouth, and he continued to lick and gulp down every drop, I kept moaning loudly and thrashing uncontrollably on his bed, with my legs still tightly scissor-locked around his back.
I hadn't felt this good, this fulfilled, in many years. The fact that he had taken care of my own pleasure first, without yet having me please him, just added to my growing feeling that I had found a genuine gentleman, and that I was falling in love with this man.
When I finally calmed down, and my breathing slowed to a normal pace, he slid his way up the mattress, lying on top of me, hugging me. He softly kissed me on my mouth. I could faintly taste my own fresh pussy juice on his breath, and this taste of me on him made me feel sexier than I had ever felt before in my life.
Now I rolled him onto his back, and I began kissing his chest. I gently nibbled on his nipples, and they grew hard, although not as big as a woman's. I put a little more pressure into my nibbles now, but not biting or trying to hurt him. My nibbling really seemed to excite him, and now his hips and ass bucked up and down off the bed, as mine had been doing only moments before. Watching his still- covered crotch buck upward toward the ceiling, was keeping my just-quenched pussy fully excited still: I was just getting so curious and eager to see and feel precisely what lay beneath his trousers.
Next, I started kissing and licking my way down his body, stopping for a while to concentrate on kissing and licking his belly button. When he twitched, squirmed, and moaned beneath my lips on his navel, I knew that I was on the right track, and I decided that it was time to move further down his body, to finally see, feel, and taste what I truly lusted for.
By now, I simply could no longer resist feeling that obvious big bulge in his trousers, so I rubbed my fingertips and palm over him, right through the fabric of his trousers. It was quickly apparent that my rubbing his pants was not satisfactory to either us. I knew what we both wanted, both needed, now. So I slowly, teasingly unbuckled his belt, and as I did, my fingers continued to feel his growing bulge underneath.
With his belt unfastened, I now released the tiny metal clasp holding together the waist-band of his trousers. I let the very tips of my fingers brush the fabric over the pulsing, straining tip of his cock-head. I was still not sure his organ was as big as I would like it to be, but it did feel huge against my fingers. I smiled. Maybe he would be as big as I wanted after all, and he would be THE one to finally fulfill my lifelong fantasy, of having a man's length and width completely fill me up. I'd been so let down by the handful of men I've bedded, and especially by my first husband, so many times before--did I dare to hope that THIS man would be different? His tongue had already shown him to be very specially talented, but did I DARE to hope that the rest of his equipment would be superbly skilled, as well? I only knew that I couldn't wait one MINUTE longer, to find out for sure: WAS his cock as big, and as talented, as I now dreamed, as I now hoped, that he was? Only one way to find out for sure. So I now slowly unzipped his trousers, and he raised his ass off of his bed, to let me slide his pants down his legs, and past his feet, where his trousers softly fell to the floor beyond the foot of his bed. As I removed his pants, I noticed that he had white cotton briefs underneath, and I thought that they were not particularly sexy.
I think somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I made a mental note that he would look MUCH better in colorful silk boxers. But I quickly dismissed this thought, for I was not at ALL interested just then, in how dull his underwear was. I was only interested in finally setting my eyes upon, and getting my hands around, his long, bulging ridge, which was so clearly hinted at just BENEATH his plain, white briefs.
He raised his hips again, to let me slide his underwear off of him, and his briefs also softly fell to the floor.
To Be Continued...
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