He’s a magic man.

I’m on my balcony with my black coffee and horrible sunburn.  The dog is dozing in the warm morning breeze at my feet.  Anita O’Day is crooning on the record player.  And when I think about straddling his face Saturday night I feel a twitch and a pull deep in my center.  His tongue thrust inside of me, his arms wrapped around my thighs and my padded headboard softening the rhythmic banging of my head as I could barely keep upright.

I am convinced Elliot’s mouth is a gift from the Gods.

His lips are soft and full, his grin – which he claims to use sparingly – is broad.  His kiss is expert, next level, perfect.  A mixture of soft and firm, biting and loving.  And his tongue strokes like an Olympic crew member: swift, long and strong.  And that’s just on my mouth.

On my breasts and nipples he handily – immediately – mastered whatever magic it is that I love.  A pulling, biting, full sensation on my nipple that wraps around my flesh and burrows into my core.  Not too sharp, but undeniably there.  I have not had to beg, “Harder,” once.

With my pussy spread wide above it his gentle hunger alone made me burst.  Those warm lips and wet tongue lapping deep inside of me as I writhed and rode his beautiful scruffy face surprised me, though I’m not sure why.  He is good at this.

And then the words that come out of that perfect mouth have completely bewitched me.  Who is this married man from across town who says all the right things??

The more we talk, the more we discover what we have in common.  I didn’t know there was another person on the planet who dreams of visiting Michelin starred restaurants or whose children are as defiantly precocious and individual as ours are, both eerily similar in demeanor and language.  Yet we are so different, hopefully complimentary.

He prefers deep connections over wispy liaisons.  If I told him I only wanted to see him for sex he wouldn’t be interested, but if I said I no longer wanted to have sex he’d want to keep my friendship.  I’ve never even had the question posed to me before.  A man who wants to know me??  What sorcery is that??

His interest in everything I have to say seems vaguely familiar, like from a different time when I was a different girl.  Before I had been ground down, half-way swallowed, and spat out.  My stories don’t seem “too long” even to my own ears and he’s eager to hear more.  He’s told me more than once to be myself as I share my reticence to retell another sordid story or send him a sexy pic.

Hy: Can I show you another pic?
Elliot: If you’d like, of course
H: Now I got bashful lol
E: Hahaha, why??
H: I don’t knowww. I’m extra aware of over sexualizing our interactions and I don’t want to be annoying about my pics. That’s two separate ideas. Oh, and you told me you weren’t motivated by sex so I don’t want to turn you off either bc I’m hyper sexual-ish haha. All that equals suddenly feeling unsure about sending more pics/feeling bashful
E: Ah. Well, like I’ve said before, I like you, so be yourself, because there’s really no point in being a watered down shadow of you. If I got annoyed at your interest in sex & the way you express it, would I be someone you wanted to spend your energy on anyways?
H: Well, no, but maybe it’s a matter of patience and timing? I know I’m intense and I try to be sensitive to others’ needs to take it slow(er). Though now that I’m saying that your point still carries. Haha ok, I’m not used to being invited to be myself with someone, clearly haha Thank you for that ?
E: ? You do you!

Our date on Saturday lasted nearly 12 hours and we never stopped talking except when his mouth was busy with other things.

He arrived a little past 5 and and we were together till 2.  I gave him gentle tips on how to float better in the pool and sat weightless on his lap while we kissed.  I showered quickly and got dressed  to accommodate my scorched legs: a long black sundress with unbuttoned buttons up to just below where my thighs come together.

We called a car and headed to a local burger restaurant, drank beer, split our burgers and swapped halves shared harrowing teenage stories and future dreams and decided to walk across the river to our final destination, a basement jazz bar.

There was one table in the back waiting just for us.  He drank Jameson and I a cold white wine and when he told me that I was beautiful and smart and sexy and that it rattled him, I told him how he rattled me.  His kindness, his openness, his sexiness.

It was past midnight before we even knew it and we rushed home suddenly conscious of the clock.  Back in my candle-lit bedroom he bemoaned the late hour.  “We have got to start doing this first thing.”

He picked me up and threw me back on the bed and I quickly wriggled out of my dress and panties while he ripped off his own clothes.  He crashed down on me and I hung on to him like I was climbing a tree.  His long, lean limbs endless to my reach.  His cock was large and throbbing in my hand as he brought me to climax with his.

I whispered about having a condom or not and he shook his head.  I was wondering what size I should grab him when I noticed the stiffness in my hand receding.  “Fuck,” he said.  “I’m so sorry.  I got in my head…”

“Shh, no, it’s fine.  Your penis will be with us eventually.  I don’t care.  Sex is so much more than that.”  And for the first time I actually meant it.  Sex is so much more than a cock inside of me with him.  It’s his everything.  It’s the way he makes me feel, the way he tastes, his skin beneath my fingertips.  It’s not the sum of orgasms – though he gave me many – or the pounding of a pussy, it’s the sum of the energy and ours is electric.

As if on cue his mouth, soft, warm and delicious, like a warm gooey cinnamon roll, found my pussy.  I played with his haunch by my head and fondled his balls and tugged on his hiding cock.  When I finally got to kiss him I tasted sunshine and happiness on his lips.

“God, I want to fuck you so bad,” he growled in my ear.

“I want to fuck you, too.  It’ll happen.  I’m in no hurry.”

And then I sucked his cock and coaxed the blood to fill it, my eyes locked on his up the plane of his torso.  He pulled me up off of him and kissed me again and I climbed up further and settled on his gorgeous face.  I rocked and moaned and closed my eyes.  I searched for him with my cunt and found him as open to me as I was to him.

I came and he swallowed and I marveled at his capacity to give so much, to make me feel so safe.

We lay entangled, our breath shared, and gazed into each other’s eyes.  I had no fear of what I might see there.  No fear of what he’d see in mine.

“You are so pretty,” I said.

He laughed.

“Dammit!  I was just about to say the same thing to you!”  He dipped his head to kiss me and I pulled him closer with my leg slung over his hip.  “Seriously.  You are so pretty.  It’s not fair,” he murmured against my lips.

I got lost tracing his lips with my fingers and scraping my nails gently against his whiskers.  I stared at his lips, that mouth.

“I have to go…”

“Please, just stay a little while longer.”

He relaxed into my arms and we kissed again, every inch of our bodies pressed against one another, alone together on my little island bed in the candlelight.

At 2:30 am he was gone and I texted.

“I’m laying here in the dark exhausted, sunburn screaming, dog snoozing and all I can think about is you and your magic. It’s almost as if you didn’t leave and your soft lips are still on mine and I’m still breathing your breath. You straight up voodoo ?”

And he replied.

“Mm, your enthusiasm makes the magic happen. I made it back up north. Sweet dreams…. ?”

Oh, that magical mouth.  Oh, that magical man.

 

 

 

 

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A 40-something single mother who writes honestly about sex, body image, D/s, relationships, her nervous tics, and how much she loves to fucking fuck. She also likes to show you her tits.

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