Singles On The Couch
I like spooning.
There's something sweet and personal about holding a lady in your arms whilst she sleeps; her tender breathing, her occasional snuffle, and the gentle merging of her shape with yours every time she relaxes a little more in her sleep.
I met her at work. We were having an offsite meeting, and through the course of the day we'd related well; our ideas meshing and our support for each other evident. There's very little as seductive as a pretty and clever lady. And she was both; witty, perceptive, and humourous in her contribution.
It would be all too easy to look past her business contribution, and as much as I tried, it was impossible. Clearly fit, with long hair that she must have spent hours preparing each day. Firm. No bra; ever; and a preference for wearing singlets that would always indicate her level of arousal. And Lips! Sweet, lovely lips, full and perpetually curled in a smile than melted my heart.
But it was the eyes. Every time my eyes met hers, I lost my train of thought. I lost track of who I was, and where I was, and what I was doing. Nothing mattered except the fact that my eyes met hers.
The meeting dragged on; past dinner, and into the evening. Eventually, it became evident that we weren't going to make it home, and the team leader declared it time for a couple of beers and available lounges at his place. After a fabulous day's work, the beers went down easy.
The lounges were a different story. Well; actually; turns out it was a lounge, singular. It didn't take much to agree that we were professionals, and it wouldn't present a problem. After all, the lounge was right next to the boss' bedroom – and his wife was a renowned light sleeper. We're clever people, and whilst bedding was sparse, a second sheet interleaved between us cleared us of any possible impropriety.
Thus secured in our professionalism, it was lights out; and after a moment's awkwardness, the darkness and professionalism gave way to our respect, and we hugged gently. Time for sleep.
I sleep easily. It's taken years of practice, an insomnia borne of high school pressures, dealt with over the years. The mantra places me in a deep sleep almost without fail, and tonight was no exception. I gently rolled her over, sheet still separating us, and I congratulated myself as I tucked into her spoon shape and quit my day.
I don't know how long it took, but it was sometime later. My sleep was interrupted by something not quite right. It may have been breathing; sleep breathing is slower. It may have been an unusual level of agitation in the one I was holding; she was not relaxed. But most likely, it was the fact that my left hand was no longer loosely draped across a sheet, across her stomach; but across her singlet, with the firmness of a nipple I had only dreamed about placed into my palm.
I allowed my dark side to feel the electricity in her breast; feel the arousal in her nipple; and imagine her lips, slightly parted, breathing a little more heavily, her desire for me apparent.
It is a little late in the day for professionalism, I thought.
I love breasts. A cup, b cup, c cup… whatever. They're all intensely personal, they're all wonderful to feel, and they're all a gift from the owner. It would be churlish to refuse an offering.
Gently, I squeezed her breast. Impossibly, she arched even further into my curved form, and unwillingly an erection began to make its presence felt into the small of her back.
I could do this forever. A warm body, slightly short of breath, as close as humanly possible… I stroked her hair with my spare hand, and when I was sure her breast was mine to do with as I please, I dragged a hand across her chest to find the other. Equally aroused. I gently pinched her nipple, and was rewarded with a gentle sigh and a subtle writhing within my form.
There was clearly no going back. It was now a question of how much she wanted – how much she needed – from me. I would give.
There's something special about the first touch of forbidden skin. It's always hotter, always more sensitive, and always awaited. I found the first touch at her waist, gently tucking a finger under the hem of that fabulous singlet. From here, an unhurried voyage of discovery ensued; a finger became a palm, the hem became the flat of her slight abdomen, the teasing became urgent.
It was minutes – or maybe days – later that the suffocating singlet gave up its charms, and unbelievably I held the naked breast I had never allowed myself to even dream about in my hand. The heat! I can feel her heart beating now, my erection swelling and obvious, her swollen nipple firm in my palm…
At last; we kiss.
She rotates slowly on the bed, offering her mouth, and reaching to hold my head in her hands. Another voyage of discovery, more intimate than the first; tongues gently meet for the first time, tentative. Then with some urgency, some confidence, some desire, and our mouths lock together as our needs become mutual. The kiss takes seemingly hours, and when it breaks there is a pause – in the darkness, our eyes meet, invisible, but knowing, and any barriers we ever had are shattered.
We kiss again. It is good.
Distracted by the kiss, I realise she has offered her entire chest to me. I can stroke not only her magnificent breasts, but the sides of her body, the small of her back, the cup created in her shoulders by the arching of her neck and the desire in her arms. And breaking the kiss, I can gently apply my lips to these places, and draw her closer to me, letting her head and hair fall backwards, lips slightly parted, breath heavy now.
And if I draw her singlet to her neck, I can kiss her breasts. Better; I can suckle her nipples, softly now but firm later. I can gently nip the firm buds of her nipple, too, feeling their urgency. A gently moan escapes her lips, and I place a finger to her lips for quiet; there are, after all, light sleepers barely four metres away. Her breasts, her nipples, the flat of her stomach; they all beg to be kissed, and I respond to their need.
A new smell pervades our bed. It is the scent of arousal, but had I not known it would have driven me to rut anyway. Knowing that I will find heat, and dampness, and desire, I lazily trace a hand south – and my knowledge is proven. I gently – ever so gently – cup her sex, and she arches into my hand, her eyes closed, breathing heavy, lips apart but desiring of contact. My need is great too; I mirror her closed eyes, her breathing, her desire, and kiss her – gently at first, but less gently later, so as not to disguise my desire.
If the first touch of forbidden flesh is special, the first contact with her sex is mind altering. Perhaps for both of us! I test the waters, lazily running a finger under the hem of her panties. Moving further afield, I stroke the inside of her thigh, damp with desire, and – from the reaction – clearly electrified. I squeeze her sex, gently again, and everything about her body tells me she is living for this moment, and she will not be denied. A hand slips beneath the cotton of her panties, and disappears into her neatly trimmed wetness. Without teasing, a finger penetrates her outer lips and passes into the warm and wet tunnel within – the arch in her back now giving her body away as the entire focus of her life reduces to what pleasure we may be able to share.
She will not wait. Her time is near. She will pause, though, for the three-point-five seconds it takes us to relocate her panties from her waist to the end of the bed.
Her hand knots itself in my chest hair, and she speaks words from beyond; I listen, I feel her heart, and I know I am a man. And as a man, I want nothing more than to see, and feel, and hear her have the most physically and mentally demanding intimacy she has ever had.
I abandon everything and anything; and we begin.