Safeword: Rosso Corsa

Was I under control? I didn't know, and I didn't care, because the inspiration suggested removing the black silk panties and I connected the small ring decorating her red-soled high heels to two carabiners and—yes!—there they were, another carabiner in the right place. Her mouth was at the right level, too, for some preliminary activities. But first of all, a little warming up -- I thought as I was sliding her silk panties down these long legs.

MONDAY AFTERNOON: Safeword Rosso Corsa.

I am a traditional man. I believe in a few fundamental values -- the Country, the Corps, the Eagle. Eagle-spread women, especially. The missionary position holds some advantages. The lady was quietly waiting for me, well tied, ready, her legs deliciously spread. I was taking my time. Sitting on her patent-leather Presidential chair, I was absorbing the details of her bikini wax. No black bikini to obstruct my vision this time, the perfectly groomed dark triangle pointing down. Suggesting some touching. I obliged, starting my customary skilled clit-circling, interrupted by a spectacular first orgasm by the President. Completed the low-body preparations--I left the silk stockings and red-soled heels on her--I started unbuttoning the President's blouse, the front-opening LaPerla bra gradually showing. La Perla? Why the hell did I know what La Perla was? I was past these trivial doubts by then. I let her twist a bit before slowly filling her, my cock disappearing between her spread legs, still an emotion after so many times I had witnessed the magic happening, this time made even more magic by those two large but shapely boobs heaving.

How much time I stood there looking at that unnerving little smile, I can't remember. What I remember is that her smile was not so unnerving anymore.

And as I looked at her face--small creases at their edges, at her nose, not a French nose, rather a Greek one, and a little bit too large--I realized I was fascinated by her small defects: her slightly sagging breasts, her rather wide hips, and the smile lines by the Cindy Crawford beauty mark. I looked into her smiling eyes, and I felt an unexpected chill in my spine as I realized that I was unable to describe what color they were, yet I would be staring at her all night long.

As a former jarhead, I was trained to cope with danger. I had felt fear—sometimes, even terror.

So, I knew what I needed to do. I was past Lamborghini yellow now. I had never thought I--not her--would have needed the safeword today, but I needed it.

So, I told myself, yell the safeword. "Rosso Corsa!" Break! Run! Board the blue Mustang and run! No time to warm up the V8 engine. Run for your life. Put as many miles as possible between you and this woman, and don't look back.

Instead, I stayed there, frozen. Mesmerized.

I had always wondered if you can recognize a danger you have never confronted before, something you had always known existed but never experienced, so you ended up believing it was just a children's myth like the scary monsters you were told hid under your bed. I realized then that this was real.

As real as the surge of fear I felt as the C-130 door opened, and I jumped for the first time. There was no parachute to save me from this fall...

...because I was falling in love.