Selena Kitt - Quickies

"Nothing." I concentrated on his mouth moving its way across the flesh of my breasts above my bra. "Nothing, I guess." Thinking: everything, but I don't want to stop.

"You… are… beautiful," he whispered, enunciating each word as he undressed, and the sight of him filled me with an incredible longing. When he was on me, long and lean, but oh, so solid, I held onto him as if I were drowning, and I was, drowning in the feelings coursing through me, conflicting at every moment. He kissed me, a long, deep kiss like I'd never been kissed before. I felt sixteen again when he led my hand down between his legs, and what I found there made me gasp in surprise. He was so large and so hard that at first, I was really afraid, but watching his face as I touched him, his eyes half closed, his breathing ragged, I gradually grew empowered.

The difference was startling-his touch, his kiss, the size and shift and feel of him, all so incredibly different and new. I’d never been with another man except my husband.

I’d never even entertained the idea. Yet here he was, and he was everywhere, consuming me. My own need began to frighten me.

"Sam, stop," I begged breathlessly, unable to dislodge him with a push. "I can't do this."

"What do you think we've been doing?" He shifted his weight to look at me. In the moonlight his jawline was strong and firm. I tentatively ran a finger along it and he turned and kissed my hand.

"I know. I don't mean to tease you, but…. I'm just so scared." I was. I was fluttering, trembling.

“Shh." He leaned down to my ear and nuzzled my neck. He needed a shave and his whiskers scraped deliciously along my throat. "Let me take care of you. I want to make you feel good. Will you let me?"

"I don't know," I whispered, unable to sort out my feelings. Things were happening too fast. I felt it, and yet I was lying there completely dressed, yes, my summer skirt riding up over my hips, my t-shirt pulled up to expose my bra, but still in a state of not-quite-beyond. Part of me ached to feel the length of him against me. The other part of me wanted to straighten, rearrange, and make for my room in the basement. What in the world was I thinking of doing?

"What will happen if you don't do this?" He propped up on his elbow to look at me. "How will you feel?"

"You know," I said after a moment.

"Yeah, but do you?"

"Yes." I closed my eyes as his hand slid down my side. "You want me to say it, don't you?"

“Yes," he breathed, shifting back on top of me, and it was like coming home.

“I want to," I whispered, opening my eyes to see his face, his eyes bright as black glass in the moonlight. "I want you."

There were no more words then. He wanted to guide me and I let him. He undressed me quickly, no fumbling with bra straps or struggling with zippers. My panties were gone in a whisper. And I was there beside him, completely naked and exposed to a man for the first time since I married my husband. Shyness overwhelmed me for a moment, and I was thankful for the darkness to cover the heated flush of my cheeks. I wasn’t one of the tall, thin, beach girls he was used to. His wife had never even been pregnant. His hands kneaded my breasts and then my belly, generous and too soft and plaited with striae.

“Stretch marks,” I apologized as he kissed around my navel. He shook his head, breathing in deep.

“Beautiful,” was all he said. It completely filled me.

He took his time, slow and easy, but I was so far gone already that I was aching for him. His hands and mouth explored the entire length of me, his breath hot on the smooth, freckled skin of my shoulders, my soft and ample breasts, my generous belly, my full thighs. His breath tickled the dark red, wiry wedge of my pubic hair.

“You don’t shave at all,” he remarked and I flushed.

“No, I’m sorry,” I apologized. I’d seen women, girls, in changing rooms, at the gym, and even in a few of the movies my husband had started watching-“Girlie movies” my father used to call them-and had noticed that it was a trend now, to be shaved down there. How clipped or trimmed their pubic hair was, or even shaved to what my husband liked to call a “landing strip”-a line of hair like a runway just above their vulva. Some even completely shaven, smooth as my eight-year-old. He’d asked me to, once, and I had, but my skin and erupted in angry, red bumps and had itched terribly, and I’d never done it again.

“No, I love it… so tired of little girl pussies.” I could hear his smile, and his genuine admiration. The sound of that word in his mouth left me momentarily breathless. Then I was in his mouth, his tongue like sweet quicksilver sneaking through the folds, tunneling his way inward, first down, dipping into me and tasting me, then up again, finding that small, hard, sheathed button of flesh. His fingers opened my lips, and he made a game of gently tugging at my pubic hair to keep them open for his mouth. I couldn’t help the tiny little cries coming from the back of my throat, even though I knew his soon-to-be-ex-wife was sleeping somewhere upstairs, and my own children were tucked in downstairs with the only bathroom off this very room. I’d lost all rational thought, although I had enough sense to whisper and muffle my moans.

“You taste like heaven,” he stopped to tell me and as much of a line as it was, it still effected me. I shivered and moaned, cupping my breasts in my own hands, tugging gently at my nipples. He made deep, soft noises as he urged me on with his tongue, lapping faster and still faster at my clit, no more teasing.

“Sam,” I whispered, my hand finding his hair, close-cropped military cut, nothing to grab onto, I dug into the back of his neck with my nails, pulling him in and in. His hands were on my inner thighs, large and warm, keeping them spread wide. “Sam, don’t stop!” I gasped, feeling that first tightening, an almost folding in of all the muscles in my lower belly, and then the release, a complete and fluid letting go of it all centered right under the tip of his tongue. He held me tight, grabbing underneath me to steady me as a pushed up toward his mouth, gasping for air, scraping hard at his neck and shoulders as I came.

“Good, good, good girl,” he murmured, damp kisses spreading to my thighs, then my quivering belly. He was finally moving onto me, and I had a flash moment of fear. In the aftermath of my orgasm, I was suddenly more clear and sure that this really shouldn’t be happening. Yet he wasn’t stopping. He pushed my legs back, hooking my knees with his arms, propping himself above me, exposing me to him. “Take it in your hand,” he told me. I did. The tip was wet, and he was truly enormous, I’d never held a cock so big, so incredibly engorged. “I won’t hurt you,” he promised me, sensing my hesitation. He thrust into my hand, letting the wetness at the tip lubricate my grip. He moaned softly when I squeezed him. “Feel how hard I am?” he asked.

“Yes,” I whispered, sliding my hand downward from the tip, amazed at the length I traveled to the base.

“You did that,” he told me, finding my eyes in the dimness. “Do you want that?” I nodded. And it was true, beyond true, beyond thought or sanity, it was simply wanting and being wanted, and I was lost in it. He smiled and he slid himself out of my hand and then moved toward me again, rubbing the length of his cock through my wet openness, driving me slowly to distraction. "Sam, please…" I begged.

"Not yet." He kept up an easy, gentle rhythm, the tip teasing my clit with every movement. I ran my hands over his shoulders, reveling in the smoothness of his skin.

The hard ridges of his belly, already wet with sweat, made me dizzy with longing. I was losing myself in the sensation, feeling a familiar tingling beginning again in my clit, and when he finally entered me, I gasped out loud at the aim and size and feel of him, swift and hard.