First – an Erotic Short Story

November 6, 2012

Fair warning: This is long. I promised short stories, though, and here is one. It moves slowly, but if you aren’t too impatient, you may get to some lovely juicy bits.

The point is the slow building of a relationship into satisfactory sex. Most women, for instance, need more than a quickie. They want the romance, the care, the concern of a lover who loves them and looks after their satisfaction. And a lot of that has to do with trust.

Enjoy.

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First

It all starts with a sense that someone is watching. Watching me walk into the building, watching when I go; eyes on me. I tell myself I am imagining it, but I get the feeling most days. And it’s not an obnoxious, staring, stalker feeling, just a gentle watching. It even makes me want to dress a little nicer, walk with my head a little higher. I don’t know why, but that’s how you affected me before I even met you.

One day, you introduce yourself. You confess you’ve been watching me every day, and tell me it’s been the best part of your day.

I am floored. And, I am a little wary now, too, because my senses were right. I was being watched. And, yes, I admit it, I am a little flattered. And I’m glad I’ve been aware, and at my best. But I think to myself that you may have seen my outside, but you have no idea who I am. You smile, sheepishly. I tell you to have a nice day and go on with mine.

Later in the week, the doorman brings me a handwritten letter. You’ve written me a letter. I am, again, floored. And curious. I peruse the pages, and in them I learn more about you. Mostly, I learn you are lonely, and little bored, and interested in me. You ask me to email you. I hesitate, but can’t see the harm, so I do.

And then begins a long, drawn out email correspondence wherein I consent to answer questions that you pose me, as long as you will also answer mine. Your questions are normal, curious, and trivial. But once in a while, one of them will push the boundaries of civility and friendship. Those questions are very nosy: about my sexual preferences, about things I like or do not like, and though I balk, you are persuasive and I always end up answering, as long as you, too, will answer. And in the answering, I always end up hot and bothered, and I sense you are too.

We continue to see each other occasionally, in passing, and I sometimes wonder if you’ve timed your entry and departure just so, knowing how timely I always am. But I dismiss it, it must be coincidence, and we’ve probably passed many times before we knew each other.

Finally one day, you ask me to dinner. And I cannot say no, for throughout all the questioning and banter, I have come to know you better than anyone else in my life. There is much anticipation. How will it go? You email me about preferences, and I tell you to keep it easy and simple. So we go to dinner; you keep it light, but I see your interest. I see your flattering gaze on me, as I have felt it for so long walking back and forth to and from the building. We laugh at dinner, only occasionally looking into one another’s eyes, but when that happens, it is like electricity passing between us.

You walk me home, and when I have taken out my key and am turning to go, you catch me by the elbow and lean in slowly for a soft touch of lips. You smile, then watch me turn and go inside. I am breathless, and wonder if I should have invited you in. But no, not yet. I get ready for bed and go to my computer, hoping for another email.

It is there, waiting. Actually, there are several. Each of them says, “Wow!” except the last, and it says, “And that was just a half a kiss.”

I don’t reply immediately. I want to let my feelings simmer down a little. When I do reply, I try to stay casual. I am hesitant to approach the subject, but I must or your feelings will be hurt. I finally say, “Oh, yes. Definitely ‘wow.’”

The next date is more intense. You take me dancing. I had no idea a modern man like you would know what to do with himself on a dance floor, but you do. When I compliment you, you sheepishly say, “When I first saw you, I thought to myself, ‘Now, that is a woman to dance with. Those curves, that body, this woman needs to dance.’ And so I went to classes.” I am, again floored. You seem to take a great deal of care with everything, and there is never any rush, never any hurry, and most especially, never any boasting or showmanship. You are who you are, genuine, careful, caring.

I finally have the breath to ask, “Where did you come from? Mars?” You laugh. “No, I’ve just been waiting a long time for something like this, for someone like you, and I want to get it right.”

Our evening is wonderful, perfect. I dance with you all night, and when it is time to go home, you call a cab to spare my poor feet, even though it is a short ride. I hear you tell the cab to wait, and though your eyes brush mine in question—Am-I-going-home-or-are-you-inviting-me-in?—I don’t give you that signal I know you are waiting for. You walk me to my door, and brush my lips with yours. But this is not enough for me this time, and I pull myself in closer to prolong that kiss. And it is magic.

This time, I run to the computer before I change for bed. I email you first. I tell you what a lovely night it’s been, and how much fun I had, and I say thank you. And you email back quickly. You are happy I had fun, and you can’t wait to see me again. And you tell me you think you are falling for me. My heart pounds. I’ve been waiting for this. I’m no spring chick, but have never felt this way before.

And I’ve never been with a man. Somehow this has never come up in our conversations, and I am afraid to tell you because I think it might make you decide against being with me, but I finally feel close enough to someone to want to go through with it, but I’m so afraid I can’t, or that you won’t want me anymore or that this is a game you are playing and not the reality I want it to be. I finally just put it in an email, “I thought I should tell you I am a virgin.” It looks so stark. I can’t press send. I delete the message and get ready for bed. And toss and turn all night.

The next day I don’t hear from you at all. I am disappointed, mostly in myself. I check my work email a hundred, a thousand times. I think that if I had just invited you in, I wouldn’t be getting silence today. And though our tradition has been for you to email me first, I finally email you with a cheery, “Hi!”

And I get silence. And of course I worry. Worry that I’ve done something wrong. Worry that something has happened to you. Worry that it is somehow over now that I’ve finally found what I want. I don’t hear from you all day. A little depressed, I go home, and I don’t feel those eyes watching me tonight. I don’t feel anything but empty.

Once home, I have a lonely meal, put on the TV and try to ignore the aching hurt. And it’s true, I feel hurt. But I tell myself that there were no promises. You never said you’d always be there for me. It’s just that I’ve gotten so accustomed to our daily banter that my days seem empty without it. Finally, I put my untouched dinner in the sink and turn off the television. I get ready for bed, and the pride I’ve been using to prop myself up begins to crack. I reluctantly open my laptop with tissues in my hand, ready for another disappointment, and log on. And find a string of emails from you, at least a dozen more throughout the day. You’ve been emailing, I just didn’t get any of the emails at work for some reason. I read them all, like a miser treasuring his hoard, and don’t realize I am crying until the drops start falling on the keyboard and my hands. Your last email asks again if I am okay, and says that if it is okay, you want to call me if I will give you my number. This was from more than an hour ago. I have no idea why we’ve never exchanged numbers before, probably because we never needed to. I type in the numbers and hit send.

Within a minute, the phone begins to ring, and my pulse jumps. I answer softly, and I hear your voice, strong and concerned. “Are you okay? What happened to you today? I thought…Well, never mind what I thought. Are you okay?”

I explain to you about my day, and how silly it is that I am so reliant on computers and the internet and how ridiculous it is to be so sad over something that is a mishap, nothing more. You can hear I am crying, and you say, “I’m coming over,” and put down the phone. You are there more quickly than I could imagine. You ring insistently and I buzz you up, so nervous now I can’t sit still. I pretend to neaten up my already clean apartment, but you are at the door so soon I know you ran up the stairs.

I open the door, and I see you standing there, rumpled and eyes as red-rimmed as mine. You hesitate for only a moment, then stride in and scoop me into your arms and hold me. Your jacket is cold and my robe is tangled around my feet and I am crying again and I whisper, “I thought I lost you, that you got tired of me, that you died or that you were just bored and, and…” “Never,” you say with such conviction. “Really?” “Yes. Don’t you know I love you?” And you kiss me. And we kiss and kiss and kiss until I find we have somehow landed on the couch in a pile of cushions and your open jacket and still I am so comfortable nestled up against you, I feel about to burst.

I help you out of your jacket, and you hold me close to you, stroking my hair, and telling me again and again that you love me, that you have since you first saw me walking to my building and back every day. And you tell me that you talked yourself out of it because you can’t judge someone from the outside; what is more important is inner character, so you wrote that letter and waited to see what would happen. And now, you say, you can’t imagine a day without me. I just weep and nod and kiss you randomly, wherever I can reach. Your elbow as you move it around me, your chin, your neck. And we huddle together on the couch until we both begin to get cold, so I pull a blanket over us and we drift off to sleep together, and I finally learn what spooning is.

The next morning, I wake when you begin to stretch behind me. The sun is not even over the horizon yet. My muscles are sore and stiff, but I don’t care. I am also feeling shy; I don’t know quite what to do, so I keep my eyes closed a little bit longer. I feel you wrap your arms around me again, more firmly. I feel your kiss on my hair. And I turn in your arms, and open my eyes and see you looking at me with such a smile, I can’t keep from smiling myself. I clear my throat, “I didn’t tell you last night… I love you too.” And your eyes light so brightly and you squeeze me so tight I can’t breathe. And then I add, before its too late, “But I can’t kiss you right now because your breath, and mine I guess, is really, really terrible.” But you kiss me anyway, and I say, “Ewww…ew, ew, ew.” And nimbly squirm out of your embrace and into the bathroom to your laughter. I spend longer in there than I intended. I look mussed and rumpled and my breath really is terrible.

When I feel better about my hair (and my breath) I come out, and I see you coming out of the other bathroom. Your hair looks damp, but your clothes are even more rumpled than I remember. You stride to me and scoop me up again, hugging me like you did the night before. I reach up and pull your head down to me so our lips can touch again. This time I am the insistent one. I can’t wait any longer.

I pull you along behind me to my bedroom, but when we get there, I’m not sure what the protocol is. I know there will be some undressing, but have no idea how people go about it. Suddenly shy, I look up at you, wondering what you’re thinking, and see you smiling at me and need to kiss you again. I feel awkward, as if my elbows and knees have grown twice as knobby, but still we come together and kiss again. This melts all the uncertainty.

I know my body isn’t perfect, but you look at me as though it is, as though I am. Your breath catches, you are clearly excited, my fumbling fingers can tell from the bulge I feel as I struggle with your buttons. You still my hands, pulling them to your chest as you stop me and make me look at you.

“Why do you look so serious, suddenly?” I ask.

“Because I don’t want to go here if you aren’t ready, I want to make sure you want this as much as I do. I want you to be okay with this.”

“I AM,” I say,” I really am,” I pause, gulping, “but I should tell you…I…” I take a deep breath. “I’ve never…you know…never…”

Your eyes widen but you smile anyway. “Well then it’s good that I’m slowing this down. You need to really be sure you’re ready, honey.”

Impatient, I say, “If you make me wait any longer….” I pull your lips to mine again, then whisper, “I’ve been waiting for you, for this moment. Please, please, don’t say no now. I want this so much.”

So you take me to the bed, but the tone has changed. You are more careful, slower, more deliberate. And I thought I was going mad before. Now I am in an agony of anticipation. My heart is thudding so hard I think you must surely be able to hear it. Heck, the neighbors can probably hear it. You lay me down, and disrobe, leaving only your shorts on. I am prone, nervous but not anxious. What if I don’t know how to do this right? What if it is terrible for you? What if it is terrible for me?

Then you climb onto the bed, kneeling next to me, and help me out of my robe, out of my nighty, leaving me in just my briefs. Shyness sweeps over me, and to disguise it, I look openly at your body. I can’t help but reach out to touch, and you gasp, then smile and lower yourself onto the bed next to me.

“We don’t have to do anything, you know. We can just lay here and get comfortable with each other,” you say. And that depletes the nerves a little. “I’m still me, you’re still you, we are still us. There should be no stress, no fear, not at a moment like this. Lets get in the covers and talk.”

So we do. And the enormous pressure is lifted a little. “But I feel kind of foolish, all naked.”

“You’re not naked yet. But I am. You hold your shorts in your hand and toss them over the side. I grin.

“So that’s how you want to play it…” I fumble a minute, then toss my panties over the side. Suddenly, the covers seem too warm. But I’m not about to expose myself yet. I push back the comforter a little instead, and try to be as casual as possible. I have to admit to myself, I am still nervous. Everyone talks about the pain of the first time. It has never been worth it before, I have always been terrified. But now, I think it might be worth it after all. I’m not completely ignorant, either; I’ve read sexy books, and instructional books, and watched blue movies. I’ve just never gone there myself. I look up. You are still watching me, a hungry expression on your face. I laugh and slide a little closer. You meet me half way. And words really aren’t necessary. Our lips meet softly, and I can feel you giving only as much as you think I can take.

I am suddenly impatient. With myself and with you. I increase the pressure of the kiss, and run my hand lightly down your shoulder, your side, your flank. You shudder, increase our kiss. kissing deeper and harder. I like it. I love it! But I want more.

My hand wanders across your back, then to your shoulder again, and then down your arm to your hand. I take that hand and bring it down from my face where you’ve been keeping it, and run it along my side, leave it to rest on my hip. I’ve never felt so bold, so free. I look into your eyes frankly. “Love me, love. Show me what all the fuss is about. Please…”

You are not incoherent, quite, but you are less controlled than I’ve ever seen you. It makes me hotter than ever, and our kissing grows more passionate, but now, your hand is roaming over me, up my back and down to my rear, cupping my bottom and squeezing softly, then up my hip and to my waist, my breasts. Yes, things are heating up. My heart is pounding, I feel lightheaded, and when your thumb caresses my nipple, I think my brain will explode. I let out an involuntary gasp of pleasure. You pull back at first, looking at my face and see the pleasure written there, then go back to your prize. You lay me back where I am almost paralyzed with sensation. This is amazing, why have I waited so long? But I comfort myself with the knowledge that no one else has been right, that it was worth the wait, and then all thoughts escape me as you straddle my hips, the better to use both your hands to caress me.

Dizzy, lost in the moment, I open my eyes to see you, and I see your cock, standing straight up, the head bulbous and ready, with a pearly drop on the tip. My lips want to know what it might feel like, but I have to wait. I see your expression. You are intent, and I can see the signs of strain, you are still holding back, but I don’t mind. You are going the right direction, and I trust that eventually, we will get to the right place. In the meantime, I am languishing in sensation, in pleasure, and when you spread my legs I barely notice. Your hands are moving over me, your lips are on my toes, ankles, behind my knee, and to the sensitive inner thighs. But I am not prepared for the jolt of physical bliss that assaults me when your lips reach my center, my clit. I gasp, moan, and it takes only a moment before my orgasm begins, lifting me, to a place I’ve never been.

I’ve had orgasms before; I’ve learned the art of self-pleasure long ago, but this is something totally new. I had no idea what I was missing, no idea it could be like this. This is mind-shattering, astounding, and we’re hardly even started.

“Mmm, come for me,” you say, and your fingers enter me, one, then two, and the orgasm continues, you are touching me where I’ve never been touched before and I can’t seem to stop coming. “I’m going to enter you, love, are you ready?”

“Don’t stop, don’t stop,” I moan, “Please, pleasepleasepleaseplease don’t stop, please come inside me.”

Your hands stop for the barest second while you put on a condom and the small coherent corner of my brain that is left blesses you for your foresight.

“Pleasepleaseplease,” I groan, “please…”

And you comply, pressing your cock into my wet cleft slowly, slowly, until I feel a sudden pressure, a pressure and a quick pain that makes me gasp, but I am still too excited to care and I say, “More, please, more….” and you press into me even more, harder, deeper. I’ve never felt so full, so complete, so excited…and I feel myself beginning to orgasm again, as you push harder, still slowly, but deeper, and more thoroughly.

I can hardly breathe, but who needs breath? I can’t see straight, but who needs to see when I can feel, feel so much. I pull you closer to me to kiss you wildly, “More,” I gasp, “I want you to feel this too…” and you comply, pushing in and out, slowly, but building the ecstasy.

I can see the instant you begin to lose control. Your face loses that look of pressure, all I can see is release and determination, and pleasure and love…and you begin really pumping into me, harder and deeper than before. You seem bigger again, somehow, magically, and I wrap my legs around you, pulling you into me even deeper, my slickness easing your way, deeper, harder, until I see the eventual moment on your face…you have lost control, and you groan loudly, “I’m coming, come with me…” and I can’t seem to stop it, so I do. And the world explodes again, in the most satisfactory way possible.

You are breathing hard, and so am I, panting, and you pull me close to you and hold me while you are still sheathed deeply, pushing one last push with a groan and a gasp. I hold tight to you, and you ease yourself down to lie beside me. We are both soaked in sweat, and I find that some of the water on my face is tears. I can’t believe I am crying at a moment like this.

“Oh my god, did I hurt you?!” You say as you notice, and hold my face in your hands, “Are you okay, sweetheart?”

“Yes, yes, I’m okay, just really, really…happy.” I smile, “I can’t believe I’ve never done this before, this was incredible! Awesome! As soon as we’ve rested, I want to do it again.”

You laugh, and pull me to you, our sweat soaked skin slippery together, but I could care less.

“I love you,” you say, “so much.”

“And I love you too,” I answer. “I’m glad I waited for you.”

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