Skirting the Issue

"It's too short," You say, pulling at the hem of a little black skirt. It clings to your hips, so I, and seemingly the entire world, can see the shape of you, the perfect curve at the small of your back, as its downward approach reaches your ass and circumnavigates it like a ship lost at sea, slipping over the horizon less than an inch from your pussy.

It's my favorite and you're wearing it for me. No bra. No panties. I don't know what miraculous material it's made out of, but even in the low light of the bar, the shape of your nipples reveal themselves under your top when I pull you close and smell the perfume behind your ear. Mimosa, jasmine, Turkish rose, white musk. More favorites.

Out of sight, the bartender, John, a tall, British guy I've come to know well from my frequent visits to the bar evenings with colleagues and friends, gestures with an empty cocktail glass. He points to it, as if to say, "Another?" I lift a finger as if to say, "One more" and then, the gesture for the check.

My hand runs over your bare pussy under the table. "Stop," you say, not at all meaning it.

As you slump in the booth, your hair falls in front of your face. Your legs are freely open now, you couldn't care less who sees you at this point and, in a certain way, you hope they do.

"It's a pleasure," John says, setting our cocktails on the table along with the check. In his classic, English way, the sentiment comes with double meanings, which is evident in his smirk. Everyone can see the control you give me. Everyone is envious. Your hand slides down over mine and guides my fingers inside you.

You do this, because you want to let me in on a secret—a secret only I can know; one that can't be told, only felt. When I reach the rose petals beyond the hem of your skirt, you look into my eyes and smile. My fingers glaze with your cum dripping, if not practically pouring, from between your legs. You part them, out of sight of our fellow patrons, allowing my hand to sample what all night your skirt has been barely able to conceal.

Despite John's expert mixology, I begin to doubt we'll finish our drinks. Nevertheless, I'm not wont for wastefulness, so I just relax with my cocktail, and let you ride my fingers, moaning for everyone to see.

A drink in one hand, you in the other. That's the way life is meant to be.

It's when you paw at my lap, searching my pants for my cock, that I give in. I down what's left of my drink, throw down a handful of bills for John, and we're off to traumatize a cab driver for the next 20 minutes.

The minute we step in my apartment, your breasts find the wall. My hand holds your neck in place securely, so you know exactly where I want you to be. Your palms are flat on the wall, pushing your perfect, circumnavigated ass up towards me, offering yourself. My nose finds the back of your ear again. I inhale, summoning goose bumps on your every surface. I take your throat in the palm of my hand and pull your back to my chest, so I can kiss the back of your neck like a prince kisses the hand of a princess. You hear the chime of my belt buckle opening. My cock is rock hard and standing straight up. Once freed from my pants, it finds its way under your skirt. Holding your throat, I slide into you, pushing your petals open with the head of my dick, filling you from within.

Your head falls backwards, allowing my lips further access to your neck. My dick explores you inside, which you invite, pushing your ass into me, beckoning my cock to penetrate you deeper.

On my bed, your skirt comes off, as do my clothes. Laying naked together, your skin devours mine, clinging to me, as my dick again dives into you. Like a filament sparking into flame, the light inside you is ours to share.

Kissing each other deeply, you pull your legs back and open further yet as the light inside you gathers into a swirl. Your head falls back into the pillow. I take each of your ass cheeks and use them in a mechanical way to leverage my complete possession of you in this moment, shoving my cock deeper inside your body. Our every thought and maneuver is in service of each others bodies, as the swirling flame rises to yet a larger swirl, full and turning in your belly, growing still, your voice rising too, like an aria, higher and higher, whimpers become chirps of ecstasy, which summons a wave in me (hearing you cum always me makes me cum too).

When my cock pulses cum into you, you're consumed by fire. Grinding our hips in unison, your screams echo through my apartment, through the hallway of my building, out into the streets, across the city skyline, as I fill you up.

When finally our bodies fail, we slump together in sweaty defeat.

"No," I say. "It's exactly as short as I like it."