tagFirst TimeApproaching Heaven

Approaching Heaven

byMidnight Secret©

1


Kelly grabs my front door keys from my hand and pushes past in the hallway, scampering up the stairs all excited, and by the time I get up there, to the doorway of my North London flat, she's already dropped her panties – they're lying there on the doormat like some kind of bait.

Effective bait, too, they reel me in, my cock already hard as I scoop them up, breathe in the delicious mix of her sweet perfume, the perspiration from her frantic dancing and the spicy essence that's seeped from her tight little vagina.

Pressing her underwear to my face, I can tell she's been thinking about what is about to happen for a while, and I can tell that her pussy is already soaking. Perhaps from the looks that passed between us on the dance floor, the closeness of our bodies, the occasional brush of my hand against her small but exquisite breasts, grazing her sensitive nipples so stiff pushed against the thin cut-off t-shirt. The occasional brush of my fingers against the moist, flimsy cotton stretched tight over the heat of her pussy, in defiance of the crowded venue.

"Worship me, Jay," she says out of the darkness as I enter the little hole I call home, her words toying with my creed. But though there's a hint of light laughter in her voice, it's not poking fun, it's exhilaration, anticipation, desperation, secretly loving my eccentricity, wanting to be a part of it once again.

The front door closes, and we're enveloped in darkness. I can feel my way around, though I've only lived there a few months, it's really not a big place. Sense the bed, hear her lying there, breathing deeply as I approach as though she's been chased by a beast unleashed. Her exotic scent in the air.

I resist the temptation for a moment – though not long enough to aggravate this earthly representation of the goddess. Kelly likes me to lose the clothes first. Though she's already lost the scrap of delicate cotton she calls underwear, she herself prefers to have some clothing binding her flesh while her devotee wears nothing. She told me once it makes her feel powerful, so who am I to object? Every female is powerful in my book.

But this is no power play. There is no pretence of domination, no tacky scene of leather or plastic amusing through its sheer garishness, such clownishness mocks the sacred experience of the sexual high. I am no woman's slave, though I am every woman's worshipper.

Naked before her, I lie next to her on the bed, and hear her purr as her soft hands take in my nudity, my bare skin, my burning shaft.

"I've been waiting for this all week," she says, kissing me as my body comes to rest luxuriously against hers, her soft mouth seeming immediately sweet, though it's mainly the contact of her soft skin against the erogenous area above my mouth.

She's been drinking bottled beer and drawing on the occasional cigarette that evening, it adds a thrilling tang of bitterness to her kiss, waking up my taste buds, perhaps preparing me for what is to come.

"The wait's over," I smile, though she cannot see it. The smile is in my voice.

And sure enough, the wait is over. It isn't long before I'm sliding down her petite frame, pausing for a few moments to push up her top and take her stiff little nipples into my hot mouth one by one. Grazing the sensitive buds against my tongue while my hands gently coax her palm-sized breasts to tease out those delicate moans from her throat, such a beautiful sound, a sound I live to hear.

But I can't refrain for long, she's ready, I'm ready, I kiss my way over her stomach, tasting the slight saltiness on her taut velvet skin, inching my way down towards the belt of her tiny skirt. Her little moans continue, as much from the knowledge of what is about to happen as my fingers remaining behind for a moment or two on her nipples.

I push up her miniskirt, which is hardly a skirt at all, just a narrow band of pleated cloth, which has been taunting me all evening with promises of what lies beneath. And as I lift it up, a wave of her scent sweeps over me, her arousal strong, her need clear, filling my chest with that glorious spice.

"Please..." she moans, "please..."

Pleading with me to commit to what I've offered, a plea that is unnecessary, since there's no way I won't commit now, unless she denies me, but that is plainly not going to happen tonight.

"Oh please, Jay..."

I smile again, purely reactive, feeling so incredibly fortunate to be here, between her soft thighs. I kiss my way slowly up towards her pussy, sensing a slight exhilarated tremor within the muscle in her leg as I close in on the centre of her sexual awakening. I don't rush, there's all the time in the world and there's time to appreciate her exquisite scent, that full-bodied, exotic aroma with a hint of oak and a trace of her bottled perfume. Savouring her like a connoisseur taking in the bouquet of a fine wine before putting his lips to the rim to partake the precious flavour. Only a moment, though, and my lips are at the rim of her pussy, and it's no longer the saltiness of her earlier exercise on her skin, there's the tangy wetness of her over-flowing cup.

"Oh God, yes..." She gasps as I kiss her pussy lips, tasting her sweet nectar from the source, a strong cocktail of her arousal and the real proof that I am on the right course.

Kelly is one of an increasing number of young women in London who keep their pussies hairless. I wouldn't say I prefer it, a dab of soft fur can be sexy as anything, but it makes it easier if rogue hairs don't stray onto my tongue. Kelly is smooth, allowing my lips to glide over hers, my tongue to slide inside her soaking pussy, my mouth to envelop her little clitoris, drink her free-flowing juices.

I asked her why she did it once. She said she did it because she wanted a boyfriend to take more interest in pleasuring her with his mouth. But none of the boys she goes out with ever want to, even then. Hence why she lies awake at night unfulfilled, and why she periodically sends me a note saying let's meet up. Why guys refuse always was a mystery to me, a sad loss all round. But in Camden, guys like me benefit from that particular quirk of modern manhood.

Her hands touch down on the back of my head now, not yet pressing me to her – though that will come – but expressing her contentment through affectionate caresses. Lying there between her thighs, lapping at her most private place, I am only too content. My senses, my world is saturated with her, her scent, her flavour, the blissful sound of her soft soprano sighs. I am bound up in her ecstasy, locked in a spiritual haven between her thighs, praising her with my mouth and tongue, connecting with the earth goddess through its representation on my bed.

Sometimes, we meet up in broad daylight when it's the weekend and she's told me she's been single for too long, or her current beau is driving her especially crazy. She smiles at me in that innocently mischievous way she does, so sexy with those brown eyes, glossy lips. And while we're having a coffee and holding off the moment, she tells me I'm nuts, I'm insane to see sex as anything other than the means to a gratifying end.

"No one else I've ever met is like you," she says.

"Isn't that why you emailed me last night?" I would reply, and she'd nod with a sheepish grin and go back to telling me what a jerk her current boyfriend is. Though she's quite willing to reveal her naked body for me often enough, she doesn't much like to reveal her feelings. There's that streetwise cool about her, makes her popular in school. But though she digs me about my way with the fair sex, I can see underneath it all, she likes the way I value intimacy with her, the importance I attach to her needs. She never questions my eccentricity when we're like this, my hot mouth enveloping her clit, a finger slipped inside her tight wetness, her hands frantically pulling me to her heat, to grind my face into her searing pussy, her groans louder and louder as she approaches explosive orgasm.

She never questions my devotion as that blizzard of energy sweeps through her slender frame, her body trembling with the violent force as she comes powerfully in my eager mouth.

Even afterwards, when her heart rate settles again and she reaches for my hard cock, the question of why I care about her need doesn't arise. In fact, the subject doesn't arise again all through the night as we fool around, playful one moment, serious the next, exploring each other, touching each other, breathing in the scents of our bodies, tasting each other. Playing, teasing, caressing, kissing, licking, penetrating. Rolling around the bed, laughing one moment, moaning the next.

Over and over, approaching orgasm, whereupon we reach that state that's closest to the spirit world.

The question of why I believe sex is so special won't arise as we lie exhausted in the small hours, talking, close, drifting off to sleep in each other's satisfied arms. The question won't arise until the next time, when she has need to call on me.

Kelly likes to keep me as her dark little secret. It adds to the thrill for her that she has to sneak away from her normal life and spend the night. She said to me once that every time she goes near the Crescent end of Camden, her pussy tingles, her heart rate quickens and she feels a touch breathless at the thought of the potential that lies near, a potential that is somehow forbidden and all the more exciting for being so.

Forbidden, because she's often with someone at the time, though forbidden even when she's not.

She doesn't introduce me to her friends, she likes it that way. I'm her midnight secret. She sometimes says she wishes she could go out with me, make it permanent, make me stop seeing anyone else but her. But she likes having a midnight secret. If she's lying awake at night, and she gives me a ring, if the phone doesn't immediately go through to voicemail it means I'm not with anyone, and she can come over.

And perhaps she does like the spirituality of our occasional love making, the power of our connection. She even admitted to me once that she likes that it is special with me, not just a roll in the sack. She's not the only one.

Kelly's the youngest of them, just eighteen, still in school. We met when she cut my hair, a part-time job charging six quid a time, one Saturday in January. Chatted. Recognised each other while more than a little inebriated in the Camden Palais another weekend. Ended up back at my place, just a few fleeting steps away, ended up spending the rest of the weekend in my bed, all a new experience for her, while I was new in town, pleased to have met someone local.

Kelly's the youngest, but she's not the only one that comes over to see me from time to time. She's not the only one to see me as a forbidden pleasure, a midnight secret to add an occasional thrill to the regular progression of life in the capital.

There's Holly, of course, and the American student Laura – they're both closer to my age of 25 - and recently Penny, who is closer to Kelly's age. But none of them know each other, none of them ask about each other, though they are aware they exist.

They ring me up from time to time, or drop me an email. Kelly when she's in between her many fast-changing boyfriends. Laura because she doesn't want to commit to a relationship that would turn long-distance at the end of her studies, but she has needs. Kelly, because the guys she goes out with in North London never seem to do anything in bed but drill her then roll over and go to sleep. Holly, who is engaged to be married to a boring lawyer, but who cannot pluck up the courage to end it. Penny, Holly's young colleague at the law firm, who found out about Holly's occasional meetings with me in a drunken conversation and wanted to meet me.

And perhaps there will be others, too. Perhaps someone who is reading these words right now, pussy tingling, heart pounding at the thought of doing something out of the ordinary, naughty, but oh-so pleasurable. Someone just an email away.

It might seem like an unusual arrangement, but they like it that way, it seems. Some of them occasionally ask me if I ever think of finding just one woman. And I say that I'm always on the look out for that one woman. Perhaps she may even turn out to be Kelly or Holly or Laura or Penny. I wouldn't turn them down if any of them wanted to try it, they I doubt they would. They like it this way, having a secret stashed somewhere behind Greater London House, a saucy secret in their otherwise regular existence.

Perhaps one day I will find someone, though. Someone to share interests away from the sexual arena. Who knows what the goddess has in store? I'm happy enough for now, available for any who need it.

2


But back up, hold the horses. Before I go on with this journal of these strange and wonderful days in Camden, I'd better explain myself. So, where did it all begin? It's fair to say it all started with Holly. Holly, who I met when we first arrived at university.

Holly was wealthy, intelligent and strikingly beautiful, though on first impression her boyish short haircut seemed to add five years to her then-eighteen. If anything, this reflected her intellectual maturity, but it also set her adrift from the popular crowd, I think, though that was no loss to her and a big gain for me.

Feministic Holly, with her long legs and extravagant underwear, the girl who took me from being a lowly virgin theology undergrad, with thoughts only of going into the established church, to being a fully awakened human being, a free thinker enlightened in the power of the sexual union, who on longer had any intentions of dedicating a life to a religion created by men hundreds of years ago to consolidate their power base.

Holly, the first girl I ever kissed, the first girl I ever touched, the first girl I ever saw unclothed, the first girl who offered me a sip from her sweet chalice, the first girl to take me inside her.

It was Holly who questioned my beliefs and opened my eyes. It was at Cardiff University, Freshers' Week, where I was fresh out of boys' school and living in halls, just a couple of doors down from Holly. I was studying theology, she was studying history.

Freshers' Week was a whirlwind of alcohol, quite a shock for me after my conservative education and even more conservative parents. The whole floor of our hall just opened its doors and the party raged for days, without end. We all met each other, explored the local pubs and clubs until we staggered home and collapsed in one room or another, the conversation and drinking continuing on through the nights.

I suppose some of us clicked with each other, some of us didn't quite so much. I seemed to get on with most, though, and formed close friendships with some – particularly those amused by the unusually conservative background I had.

The girls were just a mystery to me: I was eighteen and had never been close to one before. They looked so beautiful, they smelled so sweet, their laughter was music to the soul and their smiles could melt my heart in a moment. But they had too powerful an effect on me: I was sure I wasn't good enough for one of them.

So it was quite a surprise when one of the other guys, a Londoner by the name of Dan, came up to me one night and said Holly had her eye on me. Holly was beautiful – and approachable, surprisingly – we spent a number of late nights talking, since I was studying theology and was aiming for a church career and she was studying history, and completely mistrusted the church. The debates got quite heated, in fact – she was far cleverer than me, and she had all the arguments up her sleeve.

But she was quite close to Dan, too, and those early days I even assumed they were together. Hence another reason why I was so surprised that Dan came up to me and revealed her interest.

"What d'you mean she likes me?" I stammered when he said it. The mere possibility that she had any interest in me whatsoever further than a debating opponent seemed to microwave my insides in an intense mixture of excitement and pure terror. What the hell was I supposed to do?

"Let's just say," he confided in me, "she would be a very happy girl if you spent more time with her. A lot more time." There was a glint of mischief in his eye. Was he having me on? Setting me up for a fall?

I decided to play it safe. Much as I liked Dan – he was a genuinely nice chap, it seemed to me – I was completely unsure of where he was coming from with regard to the delicious Holly. But also, I was completely unpractised in the protocol of going out with a girl. I was also unsure about what exactly I wanted in this. What if she wanted to go too far? What if she wanted sex?

It seems so ludicrous now, but back then I was completely indoctrinated in the ways of the church. My strict vicar father had drilled into me all the guilt you could possibly imagine, and had warned me about the perils of the female flesh.

But things happen for a reason, and the final night of Freshers' Week I strolled around the floor seeing if anyone wanted to go out for a last drink before lectures started the next morning. And everyone said a resounding "no" to the idea, their bloodshot eyes enough of a reason for me to be going on with.

Holly virtually leapt up from her seat, however. So it was just her and I, out on the town.

It had actually been a day or so since I'd even seen her, not really intentionally keeping my distance, but somehow I'd put her out of my mind. I'd seen her with Dan and assumed his comment had been to scare me off, so I'd forgotten about it all.

Then here was I, arm in arm with the delectable Holly, sauntering down to a quiet corner of the nearest pub.

And it was nice, very nice. She didn't seem to be trying to seduce me or anything like that – we just talked. We talked like we had been on a number of occasions, we went through the faith versus truth debate once again, with me sticking to my Christian roots, Holly shooting at them with incisive comments.

Then I finally said, "So what do you believe, Holly?" She looked at me blankly for a moment, startled, perhaps, at my unexpected question. I continued: "What do you believe? Because it seems to me that I'm always on the defensive with you."

Perhaps there was even a hint of irritation in my voice, though anger was, of course, a sin.

But Holly smiled, and how could my irritation survive that? She said, a trace of laughter in her voice: "I never expected you to ask me that."

"Well, I did," I said, my tone softer now. "I want to know."

Her smile continued. "Most people devoted to their way of thinking tend not to ask others what they believe, they just preach." She leaned forwards across the table then, and since I had been leaning across the table a little already, our faces were now just inches apart. "But you're different."

I could smell her perfume, so sweet, every breath making my penis stir a little more between my thighs.

I assumed she was trying to intimidate me by being so close to me – the seriousness of our conversation had made me completely forget Dan's comment that she was interested in me. Such a naïve boy, or perhaps stupid!

"I hope that's a good thing," I said, looking directly into her beautiful green eyes. Horrified a little too much about the lust inside my trousers to worry about my pride that forced me to stand my ground, keep from moving back.

"It's a very good thing," she said quietly. No need to be anything but, this close.

"You're avoiding the question," I pointed out.

She smiled again. "What do I believe?" she said. "I believe that Jesus Christ was real. I believe He was one of the most important spiritual and moral teachers the world has ever known."

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