Cassie Ch. 02

It was interesting to see how the age difference seemed to have no bearing whatsoever in our enjoyment of one another, intellectually, emotionally or physically. It would only be upon emerging back into the outside world that we'd be looked at askance, defying the social norms of what was right and proper for one aged person to engage in sexually with another. But we'd worry about that, or address it in some way, tomorrow. This night was ours and ours alone. And we made every minute count.

At some point after another round of spirited fucking, we fell asleep, exhausted and blissful. We both slept like listless logs and it was Cassie pulling back the shades to a bright sunny morning that awoke me suddenly from a most restful slumber.

While our evening sessions had been a series of full-throttled sexual assaults on one another, our morning love-making was exactly the opposite – more studied and slow; less rushed, more methodical and inquisitive. It was like reading a favorite novel for the second or third time; discovering nuances and subtleties that had been missed the first time through. We were revitalized from slumber and our juices had been replenished. Yet we took our time that morning, enjoying one another's bodies in the early slanted sunlight that permeated our room.

I found myself focusing in on the small details of her slender body: the cute little dimples in the small of her back just above her smooth butt cheeks, her lovely pedicured toes, and the sweet sensitivity of her perky nipples. I couldn't keep my hands off of her. If I wasn't massaging her, I was stroking her body and letting my fingertips graze across her skin, searching for unexplored crevices or curves. She seemed to enjoy a similar tactile approach and it was rare that one of us wasn't touching the other in some way, in some place.

Cassie loved it when I placed the palm of my hand over her mound, cupping her sex which would softly mold to my hand. I loved the way her body moved subtly and sinuously under my velvet touch as I felt her lips open ever so slightly to the very tip of my middle finger. I loved the varied spectrum: going from pounding throbbing sex of the night before, to the softest, gentlest, yet no less intense, touch of the morning.

Her body looked so lovely in the refracted morning light. Her hair was wild and askew. And what woman wouldn't kill for the off-handed sexuality her tousled tresses conveyed? The occasional comb of her fingers through her mahogany streaked hair did little to tame her wild mane. I loved it.

We kissed so tenderly that morning, as if we were searching for corners and skin that may have been missed the night before. And there were always several theaters going on at once: we might be totally absorbed in an opened mouth kiss, yet at the same time my fingers were grazing the open folds of her delicate lips. Or she might be cupping her small smooth hand around the tight constricting sac of my balls. We just, literally, could not get enough of one another. What would we do on departing? How could we possibly let another six weeks go by without seeing one another intimately and fully?

Yet despite the breadth of what we'd experienced in the previous eighteen hours, we both realized that we were more focused on all the things still left to explore than on what we'd already done. It was only our second date, yet the need and desire for another meeting, and another, was only reinforced by our time in bed.

I took some lovely photographs of Cassie that morning; maybe the best of the whole lot. It felt to me like the subtle sexuality of her entire personae was there for me to capture, if it was even possible, with my lens. She was at ease, comfortable, and so open sexually, yet I'm not sure I could ever capture her erotic essence. But I tried. And, as I found out later upon viewing the over 1,000 images we took during that short period of time, I succeeded – at least in my mind.

And while I hate the overused phrase, "all good things must come to an end," it was more than true in this case. I won't even try to characterize our love-making that morning. It was as intimate and loving and deeply sexual as anything I've ever had the privilege to experience. And what was ultimately so satisfying was, it was a two-way street. I knew Cassie was feeling what I was feeling.

We were silent as we packed up that Sunday morning. It was partially a silence born of sadness, but also one based on future expectation and excitement. We checked out and wandered south on Broadway to one of Manhattan's many corner breakfast establishments. Over scrambled eggs and English muffins, we compared schedules and worked out our next rendezvous. No one looked at us askance; no one seemed to really focus on us at all. But our looks and touches over the yellow plastic laminate surface reinforced our need, our appreciation for one another and our hazy, but concrete plans for the future.

We parted with a kiss and a gaze. Our next date was set – in stone. I began to text her before I was half a block away – and was surprised to find she had beaten me to it. I smiled, brimming with delight and love, and strode off south toward Grand Central Station and home – knowing that Cassie and I would meet again soon.