So Many Yearsbysimplysatisfied©
This story is entirely true. Every bit of it, though some may only exist in memory, is true.
It had been years.
Sometimes it was hard to remember just how many—years, it had been years—maybe the count was nearly nine now? He struggled to contain himself, could barely believe that he was finally there. As the plane had made slow circles, agonizingly slow, over the city during its descent, it would have been all too easy to be caught up in the fact that he had never been this far north, that he had certainly just seen a professional baseball arena, that he had never experienced a city like this, or that this was only his second flight in his life.
As the plane made slow, slow circles, endless as a fractal pattern, deliberately forcing him back to patience when his mind and heart ran ahead of his breathing, such slow circles over the city, it was impossible for him to focus. He had known her for nine years and had longed for her, had lusted for her, had waited for her and had promised himself to her for seven of them. Now, when so many circumstances demanded that he not have her, when all the world said he should give her up forever, he was about to arrive before her and see her in person for the first time, and know her, and hug her, and love her as he had for years, now, if only the damned plane would stop making those excruciating circles over the city.
Finally they were on the ground; finally they taxied up to the dock; finally he was flicking on his Blackberry, anxiously awaiting further instructions. The booting screen was so slow, slower than the millions of circles the plane traveled as it descended to the Philadelphia airport. 'Dammit!' he thought, carrying his single bag with ease, his fingers jittery with excitement.
And finally the tiny phone, little electronic bridge to all his friends, all his family, and to her, came to life fully and the tiny red LED began to flicker and he breathed a deep sigh of relief and felt the electric thrill shoot through his brain. His mind began to wander to her beautiful face, the fair skin with gently blushed cheeks, thick, dark eyebrows like kanji calligraphy over rich forest eyes. Those eyes that he had seen in so many photos all the time they had known each other—years—those eyes that always sparkled with a unique zest for life, with a passion for experiences that he envied, and he loved. Those loving, deep, absorbing and entrancing eyes, those eyes that had said so much to him, though they had never been lain on him. Those eyes that were joined by a beautifully sloping nose, full, which turned down just slightly at the tip, leading one's gaze to thin, pink lips. Those lips that were never turned down even slightly, lips that always were on the edge of breaking into a great smile, a warm, welcoming, endearing smile, one which destroyed all the barriers around the heart and made a person want to tell his entire story, truthfully and completely, because that smile just comforted you that way.
That was the face in his mind as the tiny red LED began to flicker and he fumbled to scroll into his messages. "Take the train to the second station. I'll meet you there." In just minutes he would see her, and hug her, and know her for the first time, and he would be hers, if only for a few days, and she would be his for as long, and they would know what their love was. Just a quick train ride and he would know her for the first time.
He was overwhelmed by her energy. Her life radiated outward and touched everything nearby, and he was included in that everything, and so he was made into the fullest version of himself when he was around her. The tour of the city was amazing, truly amazing, and he could hardly believe that he was here, drinking of this rich experience, immersed in this incredible impossible culture of history, of pride, of strength, of creativity, of passion, and of America itself. Everything they saw, everything he took in, everything was remarkable in its own right. Surely this was the way to live, taking it all in, appreciating every shadow, every crack in the sidewalk, every stone with a story, every person with a story. Surely this was life.
But he was even more taken by her breathtaking energy. 'Where has she been my entire life?' he continued to question, 'where have I been my entire life?' He could barely break away from his fascination with her, with her energy, with how faithful she was to everything he had imagined for all this time—the many years it had been, leading to this week.
"Let's go back to my brother's apartment; oh you get to meet him! Wow, I can't believe you're really here, this is so cool!" She was electric.
And he was electrified by her, but he couldn't allow that to break through his cool, his façade, his image, his reputation for being a hookup artist, a true ladies' man, a wooer of the senses. He couldn't let her know how deeply and quickly she got to the core of him, so he just responded, "That sounds great, babe. Let's do that."
His lips pressed against hers. His right hand held her cheek gently, so, so gently, and their lips met in the first kiss, that first scintillating, mind-numbing, sensory-overloading kiss. Her eyes were closed, lost in the moment, and his were open, as they always were. His girlfriend thought it so odd that he kissed with his eyes open; he just wanted to take in the angelic face of the woman sharing such a blissful moment with him. He wanted to cherish every moment he spent pressing his hungry lips against someone that was just as hungry, just as involved, just as satisfied to be right there in that moment. And he was watching her face as he pulled away, breaking contact after just a few moments, watching for any flutter of insecurity or uncertainty in what they were doing, watching for any sign of rejecting him, or thinking less of him, or being disappointed by him.
'I've waited for that. Wow, for so long I've waited for that.' "It's been a long time."
He barely realized he'd spoken, but surely she hadn't heard. Yet she had. And as she slowly fluttered open those deep, miles deep, deep like the ocean itself they were so deep—as she slowly fluttered open those deep forest-colored eyes, rich with the colors of all the leaves of all the trees, she nodded and her lips were still wet with him and were parted and she sighed her agreement. He was in heaven. If nothing else came of this trip, that kiss had put him in heaven, because he had waited so long, so many years, and now he felt like they had been together the whole time. He had six days to kiss her that way, then, it was off to college and back to the Girlfriend.
Oh goodness, she mentioned his girlfriend.
"Does she know? I mean, about us, about you, about how you feel?"
He was ready for this question. He knew that the Girlfriend didn't approve, he knew that the Girlfriend knew, he knew that the Girlfriend had somehow acquiesced—or had she just given up? Regardless, he knew that he couldn't spoil this moment with guilt, with that sense of fidelity; here, before him, here in his arms, here just inches away from his face were the slightly swollen lips of the woman he had loved before he had known what love was and he just couldn't let her in on the guilt that he had hidden away during the flight, and all he could say was, "She knows how long I've known you. She knows what we've talked about. She knows so much and I think she's okay."
And more than that, he knew only that he wanted to be the Man for her, the one that was here, the one that he had waited so long for—so many years.
The night sky was clear. The moon shone overhead and moonbeams drifted in through the vent in the roof of the tent, drifted in on the slightest breeze, blown in by the romance of the trees just outside their tent. The grass beneath the floor was cool with the night breeze, and the stars reflected off the flecks of dew scattered across the field near them. Something about the night was beautiful, something about the night called to the Spain, to the France, to the cobblestone, to the castle, to the wine and to the candle in his heart. Something in the night begged him to have this moment, and to savor it, and to taste it, so sweet like strawberries in honey and sugar, to smell it and cherish it, like a well-aged wine stored in the deep stone shadows of a cellar, to be enriched by it, to be overwhelmed by it, to be completely immersed by it, and to love it.
So he loved it. And he loved her. And she loved him. And there, on the floor of that tent, they lay beside each other and pressed their lips together again. At first, they were gentle, they were exploring. At first they were two teenagers, fumbling on a third date, anxious to move ahead, to get more physical, but hesitant to ruin something that had been so beautiful. At first they were kissing, hungry, passionate, but reserved, held back by the years they had had apart, by their previous experiences, by the intimacy they had known in words, and in thoughts, but never in person. At first they were just two people, in love, but never together, unfamiliar with the other's wants, uncertain of their own wants. At first they were just two people.
Then, something came in on the breeze. Something animal. Something primitive, but not something frightening, or aggressive, but something lusty, and heady, and heavy, and thick. Something rode in on the romance of those trees, and on the innocence of those moonbeams. Something came in, was smuggled in, between the folds of the sunlight reflected off the moon, and then they were one person, one animal passion, and they were certain of themselves, and what they were doing, and what they would do, and what they wanted. Something came in on that breeze and suddenly they couldn't just keep kissing.
He crept up to his knees, hunched over her, his breath thick and heavy in his chest, dripping with his desire, saturated with his want for her. His eyes sparkled in the moonbeam and in them shone whatever had come in on that breeze and what was in his eyes was reflected in hers and suddenly he had to have her. He had to please her. He had to give her body everything that he had. He had to show her to be the goddess that he had believed her to be for all those years. He had to give her what he had so desperately wanted for her since he had learned what it meant to please a woman. As a growl rose in his throat, something animal, something primitive, something that had come in on the romance of those trees, he knew what he wanted for her and he didn't care if anything more happened, because it was all about her.
He restrained that animal within, that pure, unchecked, unlocked natural lust and he peeled her shirt off, planting kisses on her sweet, pink lips, and her cheek, and her jawbone, and her neck, and her collar, then on her belly, on her ribs, on the swell of her breasts against the bra that contained them, and on her shoulders. Her fair skin shone in the moonlight and something else that had rode in on that breeze, the pixie dust on that moonbeam, embedded itself in her flesh and he was taken by her and he was hungry for her. He pecked at her, tasted of her, licked and nipped and languished kisses upon that fair skin; he tried his best to absorb that pixie dust and have it in him forever. As he labored over her, cherishing her, taking in all of her gently curving torso, the tiny swell at the top of her jeans that flowed over her navel, and the soft, soft skin of her belly, that led right up to her ribs and the beautiful curve of her breasts, up to her collarbone and that sweet, sweet crook, right where the neck met the collar, where the warmth of her entire body seemed to gather—as he took all of her in, she unsnapped her bra and gave to him those luscious breasts, those gentle curves, those dark, swollen areolas, those sites of all the marvel and passion and sensitivity that were the female form, and he descended upon them like the shadow over rolling hills, like the raincloud blown from the mountaintop to finally saturate the fertile ground of the fields below.
He brought his lips so near them, breathed his warm, heavy breath, that breath dripping with desire, across her supple flesh and he knew that the hair on his chin tickled her and he felt her shiver beneath him. He dragged his lips, his teeth, his tongue across and over and around those full, round mounds of nerve endings, endless expanses of synapses and connections meant just for pleasure, and he tasted of her and kissed at her and took her into his mouth, and she was his, and he was hers, and her pleasure would be his right now, right in this moment. 'My God,' was the chorus in his mind, 'My God how have I lived without this?' He savored those breasts, and he kissed and licked them until she squirmed and writhed beneath him, trickles of sweat running down her body—were those hers, or his from his brow, which was scrunched in concentration on her pleasure—glistening and sliding over her soft curves. He was in heaven. All that he could want in the world was beneath him, and he wanted it all, but he wanted her to be satisfied, to be fulfilled, to be pleased on the deepest of levels, and so he crept back up her body, a trail of gentle, wet kisses up the sweep of her neck, along that kind jaw, up to those precious pink lips, for which he had waited so long, so many years.
Their kisses this time were not gentle, were not exploring, so much as they were pleading, they were thick with the electricity in the air, they were moist with the desire between them, and the thing that had rode in on that breeze. Their kisses were starving, desperate attempts to seal all the space between them, to bring their consciousness together, to melt their minds as they would eventually melt their bodies.
This time, she pulled away from him. This time, he was left panting, flushed, warm, excited, raging furious that she had stopped their rapturous engagement, desperate to have those lips back. He stretched his neck toward her, and snatched a kiss or two more, even as she turned him over, gently, firmly, resolved in her intent, and pressed him onto the ground on his back. And this time, she traced kisses down his cheek, his neck, his collar; this time, she peeled off his shirt, and her eyes took him in, and she saw every part of his body, the body for which he labored so many hours and worked so hard, and in that moment he was never more proud than for how she looked upon his taut chest and lightly chiseled stomach, the tiny trail of hair that led down into his jeans. In that moment she took him in, and he was hers and none else, and he was given over entirely to her will.
Her will, her desire, was much as his had been—to give supreme pleasure, to leave him fulfilled, to leave him satisfied, to be his and to make him hers and to take her time giving him her best. She traced kisses along the body that he had always dreamed would be laid out before her like this; she slid her tongue over and around the lines of his abdomen, outlining the muscles there, setting through him lightning bolts of response, quivers, shakes, shivers, and involuntary twitches brought on by her ease, by her feather-light touch, by her moments of uncertainty about time and space and reality. Currents ran through is body as though he were being electrified, fried right to his core, but that the electricity did not harm him; rather, it invigorated him, excited him, aroused him. Her kisses, her fingernails, the very tip of her nose, her wet lips—they set his skin afire and lit his senses ablaze as she undid his buckle, as she inched his pants down his hips, over his thighs, those defined and cut thighs, and down off his feet. She tossed them away, her gaze lusty and heady and set in his memory for eternity; she tossed them away as though they were locks and bolts restraining her from what she really wanted, and she lowered those lips toward his crotch and she began ministrations that so engulfed him in feeling that his mind reeled and all thoughts ceased. 'My God,' the chorus clamored in the hollows of his mind, 'My God how have I lived without this?'
She was skilled, she was focused, and she was entirely invested in his pleasure. He was lost in the warmth of her lips around him, and in the tugging of her hand at the base of his shaft; he was rising out of his body, engaged in something divine, in something deeper than he could fathom, and he was brought back by gentle popping, as her mouth left his member, and he felt that something on the breeze, just before she dove back upon him hungrily, taking him, making him hers.
She worked up and down and around his cock, her tongue washing him, stroking him, teasing him to ever greater heights, promising him release then easing him back into the torturous rapture that only it could provide. It had never been this good. He had never known head this good. Even the Girlfriend didn't compare—goodness, how did he feel to be thinking that now, of all times? But the thought passed with the popping again, as he was released from the warmth of her sweet, sweet pink lips, and felt the desire on the breeze blown in by the romance of those trees, and then she had him again, his full attention, his body tense and also at ease and so completely hers.
Her masterful lips, dexterous tongue, and gentle, patient stroking were bringing his restraint to its very end; he could not contain himself much longer and, in a moment of clarity, wondered about their boundaries. Wondered how she would handle him spilling forth into her without warning, though surely she could feel his swelling beneath her lavish attentions and her stroking; he wondered how she might respond to him bursting forth now, now at the peak of this immense pleasure, at the head of this great service she did unto him, at this masterful command of his natural masculine response to such administrations. He choked out, through the lust that had sealed shut his throat, that he would come soon, that oh God yes keep going, wow, oh, he was coming—and he erupted within her.
And never did she stop, nor slow her ministrations. And only did she cast those gleaming eyes upward at him as she consumed him, as she took him into her mouth, her throat, and her belly, and as she caused him to spill forth again and again, for what seemed like hours, days, weeks, as his head spun, and his body raced to the clouds and to the mountains and crashed back to the ground and his eyes rolled and his jaw went slack and he was spent with the force of his orgasm. He panted and fought for breath, struggled to find coherent thought, to find power to move, and he slowly, so very slowly, slower even than the terrible circles the plane made as it descended, so slowly came back to reality. He became aware, gradually, of the moonbeam, illuminating the tiny dust particles in the air, as it passed through the roof of the tent. He began to see the walls around him, the flooring beneath him, to feel the rolls and swells and lumps of the ground just outside the floor of the tent. He could feel her fingernails dragging along his thigh, electric pulses still racing in his veins, but subdued now, pacified by the supreme release that she had caused.
In the passing moments—were they hours and minutes or just microseconds?—he started to remember the heights of ecstasy to which she had just taken him, and he knew what he wanted for her, and he knew that she had moved out of turn. He knew that he had to pay her in kind for the wondrous pleasure she had bestowed upon him, but that even more, even more now than when he had daydreamed of her wonderful face, even more than when he had kissed her that first time, even more than the dreams he had had of her laid open and welcoming to him, beckoning the pleasure that only he could bestow, even more he knew that he had to please her so deeply, so thoroughly, so completely, so honestly, so blissfully, and so skillfully, because he sensed that he would not be able to perform in other capacities for her after that incredible release. He had to be at his very best in the moments to come, and he had to be for her what she had just been to him, and he had to make her whole, and to make her his, and to be hers, and to be invested entirely and solely in her pleasure.