Marta, Who is My Friend Pt. 01

her words, as she comes, are surprisingly soft, contained, whispered into my face and neck, inside my ear

Oh god, Sid, god, jesus, Sid, god, fuck, god jesus.

And finally her legs let go, she falls against me, her weight pushing me backwards away from the door, our mirrored reflections. A throw rug twists beneath us and we fall together backwards across the narrow space between us and the foot of the bed to land and lie tangled on her yellow duvet, gasping onto each other's skin. Her warm breath on my forehead, my breath against her the soft skin of her chest.

It is moments.

Then Marta, whispering:

"Christ, Sid, your finger's still inside me."

"Do you want me to ...?"

"No, don't move yet."

She contracts herself, squeezing my trapped finger inside of her. I move it gently in a hidden circle in response.

She twitches at the movement, there is another small series of contractions, dwindling.

"I came standing up," she says.

"I know. If you can call that standing."

She pushes out a small, spent laugh, her lips graze my forehead and I strain up to her, find her eyes with mine and touch, finally, my lips to hers, exploring slightly another piece of the world inside her: her teeth, her tongue (that meets mine, welcomes it, caresses).

It is our first kiss.

#

The kiss, my movement draw my finger almost out of her.

Reaching downward, Marta lifts it completely away. She breaks our kiss, draws my hand up to her mouth, kisses the finger that has been inside her, then places it in her mouth, surrounds it with her tongue and in that warmth sucks the slick and pungent remnant of herself away.

"You're wearing your suit," she tells me when she's done.

"And my shoes."

"Jesus, Sid, you're not undressed at all."

Her free hand finds my collar, touching lightly the available skin beneath.

"I think," she says (still breathless), "that's the first time I've been frigged off by a man wearing a tie. So even at forty nine, there's something new."

"Have you ever been frigged off by a woman wearing a tie?'

"No." Small laugh, "I'm regrettably low on lesbian experiences."

She begins the process of untangling her legs from mine, pushes herself up on one elbow. Her hair cascades across her breasts, the rosaceous glow of her orgasm fading to pale across the top of her chest. She glances down toward my pants where evidence of my participation is still faintly evident. Gives me a smile that is lustfully proprietary.

The clock on her bedside table says 1:33.

She moves a hand across the knot of my ridiculous tie. And, falling away from me onto her back, says to the stuccoed ceiling:

"Well, Sid. Maybe now you need to be the guy who proves me wrong."