Marta, Who is My Friend Pt. 02

Long After Midnight

"Don't think of her," she whispers at me. "Just for tonight, think of me."

"I'm not thinking at all," I whisper back at her.

Her fingers move from my tie to my neck, from my neck to my chin, from my chin across the small stubble of my middle-of-the-night whiskers, until she finds my lips. I kiss two of them: forefinger, middle finger. Feel them slid inside me, a tiny female penetration, she is touching the dampness just inside my lips, I feel the roughness of Marta's fingers slide against my gums, my teeth and then withdraw. I let my head turn, following, and see her, the heavy pendulous fall of her breasts beside my shoulder, the long, dark tendrils of her hair against the paleness of her skin (I have touched her just now, her skin, the precious soft insides of her). Her hand glides across my face, her palm soft, dry, tentative.

There is a moment when someone touches you for the first time as a lover, when skin and bone and gristle fade away, and you can feel -- almost - each other's soul. The shyness of her hand against my face invades me and we touch in that way (to that depth) for a moment. I ache inside for more of her. Her fingers brush over my eyes and I close them under her soft ministrations so I am only darkness and feeling. I want to be inside this lovely woman: the thought of that, the butterfly touch of her fingers on my eyelids makes me hard inside my clothes.

In the dark beneath her fingers, I say her name.

She says mine.

She is my friend, my love.

"Touch me," I ask her.

She understands.

Her hand leaves my eyes. She finds me elsewhere, kneads me lightly, squeezes. Then finally, laughing, naked (I can smell her with my eyes closed, her warmth, her sweat, her sex), she pulls my tie apart, her fingers find the buttons of my shirt. My eyes open now, and the woman I am looking at is flushed again, sexed and wide-eyed. I touch again the soft folds of her waist, the hard bone of her hip, I pull her to me, against me, the naked jointure of her legs meets mine, and I am clothed, straining up against her. The bedroom air is cool on my chest and stomach and I twist to touch her, skin to skin. Her belly against my ribs and my own soft, middle-aged stomach. I feel the rush that comes with touching body to body. All that glorious flesh of ours, a million nerve endings. Her hands are busy, gifted now, and dexterous. She has undone my belt, unhitched me, I kick off my shoes (hear them thump and clatter to the floor) and finally, amazingly, adulterously, beautifully, her hands and fingers find the warm stiffness at the bottom of my body.

"Oh, Jesus, Marta," I say to her as she squeezes, moves and gives me sudden bolts of pleasure.

And then,

bends down to me, my pants now somehow bunched, undignified, below my knees, and, looking up at me past the sad old swell of my belly, guides me with her fingers to her mouth. Her odd, flat lips now move against my shaft, kissing, caressing; her tongue, ferret-like, glancing out to touch my frenulum, then licking downward, a damp glissando, to my balls. She looks at me, dark-eyed, knowing. She has me now. She knows it and I know it too. I can do nothing more than let myself be loved by this fierce and gentle woman. I gasp and surrender to her and think, as she wants, only about her, as she smiles around me and takes me fully in her mouth.

*

Now, for several long, delicious moments, my whole being is located in the few inches of flesh at the bottom of my body. Marta's mouth is warm, her tongue alive and moving on my shaft. My hips follow her as she moves, rising, falling with the soft directions of her lips, her tongue, her teeth. Her hands slide under me, lifting me in synchrony, her fingers drifting inside the cleft of my ass, tracing lightly the edge of my asshole. I feel her thumbs at the base of my body, the soft, electric underside of my balls.

She is skilled at this.

This is something I know about her now.

"Dear god," I tell her. "I've dreamed of doing this with you."

She releases me from her lips, her fingers still moving in, around me.

Answers:

"You're not dreaming now, Sid."

Then falls to lightly gobble me again.

And when, after moments more, she feels me coming close to melting in her mouth, she pulls back, and says, her voice grown husky with sex:

"Sid, are we really going to do this?"

I lay beside her, my dick, utterly stimulated by her, dancing on its own above my belly, nearly ready to burst.

Instead, as an answer, I sit up, lean to push my trousers off my legs. Now finally, we are naked together, Marta and I, and I roll against her, pressing against her stomach. Locked between our bodies, my penis calms a little.

I breathe.

Time slows.

The need to come recedes.

And so, luxurious, we move together, begin together, making love.

For long, long moments we explore. My hands drift across Marta's hips and ribs and find at last the silksoft outsides of her breasts. Different, more voluminous than my wife's. Milky white in color, traced with blue veins. I find the papery softness of her areolas, feel her nipples stiffened beneath my thumbs. While Marta pushes both her hands between our bodies, touches roughly my belly until finally she is holding my balls inside her palms, her fingers splayed in the sweat damp knots of my hair.

"Do you like this?" she asks. Fingers moving.

"I like you," I tell her.

"Not enough," she says.

Our eyes lock. They are inches from each other. Our bodies pressed, our legs entwined. Her fingers moving, almost (but not quite) imperceptibly at the base of my shaft.

"You need," she says, "to love me. Just now. For this moment. You need to love me. Please."

"You don't have to ask," I tell her.

"I do," I tell her.

"I love you, Marta."

Her odd and lovely flat lips form a smile, she rewards me with a kiss. Now even our tongues entwine, and the taste of this woman, my friend, my lover, floods my mouth. Her hand move to take hold of me and I am aware, without seeing, how her hips move against my belly and how she has drawn her legs up and is moving me downward then upward into a region of delicious warmth. And, held by her, I push where she guides me. First gradually, then suddenly, and I am inside her and she is all dampness and heat and I am buried in Marta and our eyes are locked and our souls break open and we move together, and she, Marta, is my friend and Marta is my lover and I am blind with sensation inside her body. And together we travel beyond words, we are only sound and movement and blind, glorious sensation; and, as I push further and deeper into her, I can feel her breath quicken against my chest, my face. While at the jointure of our bodies she has begun to push down onto me, grunting with every movement, and I match her, plunging upward.

"Nguh" she half-says. "I swear, Sid, ... I can feel you ... on my cervix."

And, moments (how long?) later, as we push and fall and plunge into each other, bound in pureblind biology to penetrate unimaginably deeply this woman whom I (for this moment) want to love,

"Now, Sid, please, I want ... you ... come inside me ... please, god... now..."

And pulls her lips an inch away from mine looks at me and looks, and now, when we finally cannot push each inside of her any more, I feel Marta contract around me and her body shudders, racked with sudden invisible earthquakes that, unseen but felt, squeeze and squeeze me in the fleshy dark inside her, and my own moment finally arrives. I push one last time into Marta's shaking self and pour, shuddering, into her and leave for a brief but endless moment the world (in which I am married, in which this should not happen) and melt and explode and die inside her body as I fall into her (loved and loving) eyes.

Some (indeterminate) time later,

she touches my cheek,

asks:

"Was it poetry, Sid?"

I feel myself diminishing inside her. She feels it too. Responds by using some secret musculature to squeeze me, with slowly decreasing strength and frequency, holding me tightly (desperately) inside her.

We cling to each other.

Outside the world moves, stars wheel.

(My loved one sleeps. Far from here. Far from this room, this moment.)

"Yeah, Marta," I tell my friend. "It was more than that. It was love."