The Most Intimate of Momentsbybb1212©
I lightly stroke her.
Barely making contact.
Gentle, sensitive, reverent.
I close my eyes.
I trace her curves and smile as her visual glory becomes tactile.
I can see her warm smooth body just as clearly through my fingertips.
She is perfect.
I savour the moment and she waits patiently.
We have no need for haste.
When I have completely caressed her we are both ready.
I alone hold her key, and now she is ready for me to use it.
Slowly, carefully, gently I enter her.
We both know this is merely the beginning.
My hands are now busy.
My movements will take us to the next stage.
We move together.
Slowly at first, we feel the incredible sensations.
We adjust to each other.
We become one.
She purrs softly and I press down on her just a little harder.
Instantly she responds.
United as one we move faster, our bodies joined in ecstasy.
The most intimate of moments.
I know she is a rare beauty.
Everywhere we go men look at me jealously.
They look at her with undisguised lust.
Even women admire her.
She is that beautiful.
I do not begrudge others for staring, for I too once stared.
Then I made her mine, and now we are joined.
I bathe in her glory.
My movements are carefully matched to hers.
I push down and pull back in the random rhythm of my primal urge.
I take her as hard as I dare, and we twist and strain together.
We live in the moment.
Nothing that came before matters.
The past is gone and our shared future beckons.
But it is this moment alone that matters right now.
We obey no rules.
We only obey our desires and our sensations.
My muscles strain and I gasp for breath.
Sweat beads on my skin.
We are close to our goal, so close, and I recklessly give her everything.
She howls in pleasure and writhes almost uncontrollably under me.
It is impossible to conceal our actions, but we do not care.
Let the world know.
Let the world be jealous.
Then we arrive together, in a glorious and spectacular crescendo.
And only then are we sated.
We take the time to calm down.
I feel my pulse rate slowing.
Then gently I withdraw from her body.
Reluctantly I move away.
Then I turn and gaze at her, my eyes dark with lust.
Sleek and beautiful, she waits.
A voice behind me shatters the moment.
“What is it?”
“She’s a ’66 GTO,” I say. “389 tri-power”.
“Oh.” I can hear he is not impressed.
I don’t care.
He probably drives a Prius.
He probably has sex with his computer.
I walk to the shop.
Behind me a small crowd of admirers gather around her.
There is a spring in my step, and a gleam in my eye.
Soon we will be joined again.