The Best - and Worst - Day of My Life

So a little while ago, I wrote a story about two dancers who were each married to a non-dancing spouse. They were having a tryst, and they made love for the first time outdoors one evening after making a pledge to become love dancers, a term meaning that they would be monogamous lovers in the dance community. I liked the characters whom I had created, and wanted to develop them a bit more, so I wrote a second one to further flesh them out, so to speak. I'm not a great writer, and I definitely do not do what Stephen King suggests to become a better one--write 2000 words every day--but I do like writing a short story every now and then. And I like the genre of erotica.

What I find, though, is that sometimes the characters in many of the erotica shorts which I read lack that third or fourth dimension. The story seems to have been written with the main purpose of getting the reader off. (One writer on this site unabashedly told me so). Not that I don't want my readers to get off, but I also want them to delve into the characters whom I create, based on my own personal experiences, and which I try to make humanly real (meaning with faults, flaws, foibles, and failings). What I've found is that when two characters interact, like with real people, conflict occurs, either provocatively or unwittingly. I like to think I'm writing erotica for English majors--just joking, as I was never an English major and never aspired to be one--because I like to see how the conflict resolves itself and how the characters change, all while gaining as much carnal knowledge as possible!

So let's begin:

She wasn't requesting it, nor was I expecting to be paid. But I was going to exact a payment of sorts anyway--in the currency of new sensations.

I was finishing giving her lengthy and unruly pubes a "womanscape." With my electric clippers, I had sculpted around her vulva, keeping it a bit long centrally, as she preferred, and then gave her a shorter shave everywhere else. To my eye, it provided a nice oval definition for her vaginal opening.

Maybe it was the vibration of the clippers, or maybe my fingers gently moving her labia aside, or maybe just the fact that a handsome man was being given access to her private parts in private--whichever it was, there was obvious moisture beginning to coat her nether lips. It got my cock to respond, as it was a sign that this was an arousing experience for her, too. (Turned out, she later confided, this was the first time she had allowed anyone to prune her bush.)

I turned off my clippers, laid them aside, gently spread her thighs to look at the work of art that I had rendered. But I didn't stop at a visual appraisal. I leaned closer and gave her weeping vulva a kiss with my lips and a lick with my eager tongue. I was rewarded with the familiar sensations of an aromatic olfaction and a tangy taste, but also a new one--a mouthful of tiny hair fragments. Tiny keratin shards, prickling irritants on my tongue and lips. It was indeed novel, both strange and weirdly pleasing.

Most people recoil with the annoyance of a hair in their mouth or teeth when having oral sex. But I was obsessed with seeking new sensations, whether they be mainly pleasant or mostly noxious. Usually they were some of each.

I yearned for more. Another mouthful. But instead, I decided to savor the flavors and relish the feel for the moment.

My initial impulse was to kiss her with what I had experienced, but I decided against that as well. Again, I reminded myself that most people are averse to hairs in their mouths. I eventually swallowed them all, or wiped some of the others away--once I had made a mental note of the sensation.

She never even thought of my act, I later learned, as exacting a payment. Why? Because she had just given me a haircut, shaving my head and trimming my beard beforehand. So in reality, this was a barter. A quid pro quo. But I hoped my vulvar kiss was going to lead to more new sensations to follow. So, my action was a way to catalyze them. Or actually more of them, as we had already experienced something new earlier this morning.

Before going on, I should provide some back story. We needed a cover for our getting together. We were newly in love. But being married--each of us with a spouse at home--required pre-arranged times for us to discreetly meet and necessitated reasons to be given to our spouses for why we were meeting.

With me, it was easier as my spouse worked away during the week, so my house was free. Her spouse was at home declining from a chronic condition which required someone to be with him 24/7, so she had to make sure that there was always a person available when she left home. But both of our spouses wanted to know our daily activities, so we had to devise legitimate-sounding ones.

We both wrote for our own satisfaction, so we concocted the idea of a start-up writers' group, four of us, consisting of her, me, and two others who happened to go by our pen-names. That obviously meant it would just be the two of us.

We planned to gather every Wednesday morning, make tea and coffee, then have a check-in to share what we had done for the last week. Then we would read something that we had written, to the "group," for critique. And finally, using a prompt, we would do some writing on our own.

On this Wednesday, our first meeting, I decided to read a poem which I had written about my parents, in decline as well, and she read a prose piece written when she was in her 30s pondering what her advanced age would be like.

We then agreed to pick six words at random in the dictionary and write a short piece which included all six words. This was something new for the both of us, but in 25 or 30 minutes, we each wrote a short story and read it to the other, then talked about how we had tried to use the six words seamlessly: somber, pousette, badge, metal, escalade, and docile.

We broke up the writers' group to take a 3-mile walk to exercise my dog, and then returned home for lunch--a West African peanut soup which I had made earlier in the week--and roasted kale which she prepared. We ate in conversation, neither of us talking about the afternoon to come, but she must have anticipated the love dance before us, because I certainly did.

She then buzzed my head hair, did a beard trim, and shaved my neck in advance of what we were both really waiting for.

Several weeks ago, maybe a couple months, we had promised each other that we would let our groin hairs grow out naturally, not trimming or shaving them. We kept our word, but she was finding her pubic hair too long, too difficult to keep clean, and asked me if I would like to be the one to trim hers--or should she just do it herself. As I loved doing pubic primping, and never got the chance with my wife, I readily agreed. And today was the day.

Having finished, I had a mirror to reflect her womanscape. She had an immediate appreciation for it, especially after my having tasted and reported on the results with satisfaction.

After her lengthy lauding of my skills, we transitioned to talking about our aging bodies--both of us in our late sixties--and some of the insecurities in love dancing--our euphemism for making love. For her it was the pressure she felt to have an orgasm to show that she was enjoying herself. For me it was the performance anxiety in having a good enough erection to have intercourse, imagining that that's what a woman wanted: to be fucked by a good stiffy. We reassured each other that those may be aspirations, but were not the be-all and end-all goals for our love dance.

I didn't know if it was our writing together and being vulnerable in what we had just read aloud. Or our walk together talking about our history with dogs--the ones we got and lost, our favorite ones, the ones that we had to put down because they had bitten people. Or perhaps the unusually frank discussions about our sexual likings and disliking, fears and aspirations. Whether some, or all, of the above, I wasn't sure, but I've always found that intense and intimate conversation was very arousing. And so did she. So in our mutually enthusiastic states, I boldly suggested that we try something different today: applying clothespins to each other's tits and genitalia.

I had done this before to myself, but it was years ago and I had forgotten much about the experience, so, although not completely new to me, the novelty would come with having someone else applying the pinches and allowing me to apply them to her.

Momentarily surprised, she paused, inquiring, "What if I don't like it?"

I reassured her, "No worries. We will take them off. You won't need to go on."

I recalled that so far everything I had proposed in the past, even though sometimes initially met with her skepticism, had turned out wonderfully well. Perhaps it was because we didn't make a goal for an outcome, but we let things unfold organically with only the starting point suggested. So, we would go with the flow again today.

We got naked, and in a standing embrace, I gave her a loving, albeit brief, kiss. She informed me that what she'd especially like was to start with a slow, lingering one. We did that, rolling our lips over each other's, letting our tongues explore each other's teeth, inside our cheeks, and along our gums, maintaining the wet connection for minute upon minute.

We laid down to continue our loving and luscious kiss, and when we came up for air, I picked out a handful of clothespins from the jar and handed two to her. I requested that she put them on my tits. Her first attempt failed. She couldn't quite get the clothespin to stay, so I advised her to take a bigger bite. With that suggestion, she accomplished the placement quite well, sending a bolt of pain through my chest and down to my cock. Already starting to swell, the nipple grip jolted it further, nearly into full tumescence.

She put on a second clothespin on the other breast, deftly, and without hesitation. I was in ecstatic agony, my cock sprung to full erection and she sprung into action. She took two more clothes pins from me and pinned them to the rim of my glans penis. It was an intense, painful, pleasurable experience. This woman, when she got motivated, was ruthless, nasty, mean, and so fucking loving. Even though we had just begun our foreplay, my engorged cock was demanding that I fuck her.

It had been a while since we'd had intercourse, and her wanting pussy wanted fucking. I lubed up with Astroglide after she had mercifully removed the two dangling clothespins from my penis. With their release, the squeezing was replaced with a burning sensation. The antidote would be the soothing grip of her cunt.

She guided me in, and she gasped as I filled her tight pussy with my big cock.

Gently I started pumping away using the music to guide me. This was a love dance after all, and the rhythmic oud of Omar Bashir gave me all the impetus I needed to fuck her vagina which had begun weeping for joy.

Sliding in smoothly or banging her roughly, I kept fucking her. When she wanted it slow, I gave it to her gently. When she demanded it harder, I gave it to her rough.

Then we paused. Seeing my augmented arousal, she wanted to try out the clothespin pinch of her tits as well.

I took two clothespins and clipped them fully, one each, to her protruding nipples. Surprised, she said, "I like it."

We rested on top of each other, our clothespins making our breasts even more uncomfortable with the pressure. I was succumbing to the pain so I asked her to remove mine, welcoming the rush of the burn to the torment of the pinch.

We changed up and fucked in the side position. It wasn't quite the fit that we each needed, so I lubed up, and, back on top, I slid into her pussy again, nestling my now bare pecs against her breasts with clothespins.

Then I resumed pounding away. With her excited response--her pelvic tilting--I got close to coming, and had to immediately pull out. This was too good to end too early, so in order to reduce the intensity of my arousal, and perhaps ratchet up hers, I took four more clothespins out of the jar and applied them first to one breast than to the other. She loved it, which meant, so did I.

I re-entered her and we resumed our ferocious fucking, both to the music and to her demands to do it harder. With her whimpers of delight, I took a second pause, a brief respite again, being so close to rapture.

We went back to it a third time. This time there was no turning back. She was close to coming too, and gasped as I humped her, "I want us to come together."

We both bucked to the music, and we actually did come at the same time, me screaming with my head turned to the side to spare her ears, and she, gasping as her body quaked, jerked, and then tremblingly shook.

It delighted her that we could coordinate this so beautifully to reach an orgasm simultaneously. It really was sublime. Once my screaming had died down followed by my whimpering, my sighing, my crying, I felt more of her shudders, which she called her "orgasm aftershocks."

I felt her squeeze around my cock now detumescing. Eventually she gave birth to my flaccidity. I rolled off to lie next to her, my right leg over her abdomen, my nose in her hair, and my words of love pouring out in little streams over her ear.

We lay for a long while, relishing, reliving, recollecting. Knowing my lover only a few short months, but understanding the deprivation of loving which she had had over the last decade, I was more than willing to continue to enlarge her erotic space. I slid my right thigh off her belly and groin, and replaced it with my right hand.

Gently, I caressed her nether lips with their fresh coiffure, circling and circling. When she relaxed her thighs as an obvious invitation, I deepened my circling to reach her inner lips, and spiraled into her still swollen clit.

I listened to her breathing, initially slow and measured, but with succeeding circles it quickened, subtly, but accompanied by the faintest of sighs. In a previous love dance, she had reached a point where she needed the penetration of my fingers. That moment was coming, but we were in no hurry, so I kept up my circling, changing only the direction from counterclockwise to clockwise, aided by the rhythms in the music and the depths of her breathing.

The signal came with the faintest of gasps, and I slid two middle fingers into her hot vault. I began circling my digits, feeling for the ridges that would make her quiver. I was rewarded with further sequences of her body tightening, twitching, relaxing, then again, going through that same cycle over and over and over. After uncounted minutes, she reached down to guide my hand out, slowing my stimulation.

We lay there once more drifting in the ecstasy of her second orgasm.

More oud music flooded the room. My dog came to lie with her muzzle on my love dancer's bare left leg.

In the stillness of the afternoon, we talked. Sometimes a little. Sometimes a lot. It was about reflections of the day. It was gratitude, thanking each other for the many gifts that we exchanged in our attention, in our helpfulness, in our collaborations.

But she was still not fully satisfied. When we were maniacally fucking, I had called her my favorite whore, my best slut, and I'd also, in the delirium of the moment, proposed that I wanted to come inside her and then lick everything out. As we were recalling all the events of our day together, she reminded me of my proposal.

It's funny, but in the moment of post-orgasmic relaxation, those fantasies and desires for me seemed to recede, so I asked her if she still wanted me to do that. She politely responded by asking me if I wanted to. So I deferred, and returned the question once more to her. "Yes," she said with conviction.

So to the long live version of Omar Bashir's song, Fog Al Nakhal, I crawled down the length of the memory foam, and stretched my legs out on the carpet. I gently spread her thighs and started to slowly kiss her manicured mound.

My tongue began to loop around her inner lips, and after several cycles, she responded how much she liked that. So several more cycles of circles followed. In perfect time to the music, I began to lick with short or long strokes, depending on what I was hearing. My tongue tip found her clit tip and I wiggled it, making her giggle.

Feeling a bit self-conscious about her response, she reassured me that it was only because she was feeling so good that she was giggling. That was a response I could respond to as well, and I resolved to make her giggle again and again.

The music directed my every lick, first in one arc, then in another. When my tongue found her taut little nub, I played with it, receiving as my reward, her intensified giggles.

The music seemed to go on and on, and so did I. I licked around her whole labia, teasing her with a momentary deprivation, and then returned to her inner lips with more circling, finally spiraling into her clit and tickling her with my tongue.

Her breathing quickened, and she asked for a finger inside her. I complied willingly, but with two digits. I continued to lick and lick and circle and suck and my lover had yet another intense rush of pleasure, with full-bodied jerks, shivers of delight, and those amplified giggles. They continued for countless seconds, almost perfectly timed with the end of the song.

She was spent. I crawled back up to lie with her, once more in a full-bodied embrace, lying next to each other, my right leg over hers and over her abdomen, my right arm across her breasts.

We had shared one intense pleasure, climaxing together, and she had had two more which I was gratified in having given to her. Her hunger for O was for the moment satiated, and I was feeling ecstatic as well. So all in all, it was the peak of a perfect day.

Until this.

We talked softly. She relaxed. And in slow motion, the fingers of my right hand with vagina and cum and lube all over them, gently combed through her hair. The little resistance I felt was from coating the hairs on her head with the ooze from the hairs below. My beard and lips bore the same coupling fragrances, and I kissed her softly on the lips. She kissed me back. She purred. I cooed. She sighed.

I sighed back. I spoke. I broke her loving trance with my declaration,

"I want us to get married."

"What?"

She jerked herself out of her reverie. She sat immediately up. She pulled the sheet up over her breasts and stared open-mouthed at me.

We had had several conversations about this subject to and from our dances. We had both acknowledged that we were each married, but that if anything happened to our spouses, neither of us was ever going to get married again. It was what made it seem safe to explore this affair. We wouldn't be leaving the commitment we made to our current spouse, and we wouldn't be requiring a similar commitment to each other.

Truth be told, I was less frightened about a future marriage than she was, but given her day-in/day-out experience of being a care-taker now more than a wife, she in no way wanted to enter into another such marriage when the present one was over. The possibility of having to care for another ailing spouse really scared her.

Sure we made a commitment to be love dancers the night of our first love dance, meaning we would have only each other as a lover. But it was not a commitment to be married, after all, with everything that being legally entwined entailed.

My therapist of years past had cautioned me about making declarations when I was under the influence. And that included being delirious from love-making hormones in the afterglow. I had either neglected his advice or was too intoxicated to have remembered it.

She got up from our memory foam mattress on the floor before I could stop her, and she began pulling on her panties and clipping her bra.