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Subject: In Search of Perfection (m/f, romance)
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The following story contains material of an adult nature and is therefore not
intended for persons under the age of eighteen.



In Search of Perfection



Rose was a strawberry blonde who came into my life in high school under
strange circumstances.  She had just come out of a bad relationship with a
guy, and though we didn’t know each other well, for some reason she took a
shining to me.  As it happened, I was single at the time, so our relationship
developed naturally and slowly.  I had never thought of her in a romantic
way, but clearly she had decided to pursue me as her next interest.  

Not that I minded.  She was a cute girl:  short (about 5’3"), with freckles
and a delightful smile.  I was a senior in high school, she a junior.  And
the more I looked at her as she spilled her heart out concerning her failed
relationship, the more I came to see that she was quietly attractive,
stunning even, especially under the light as we walked through the
neighborhood talking about life and love.  

It was an odd feeling walking next to her.  I am 5’11" and have always dated
girls who are relatively tall.  I had never given shorter girls much thought
until now.  Until now.

We reached a corner at the top of the hill by the viaduct.  She touched my
arm, and we stopped beneath a street lamp.  The night was quiet, clear:  a
perfect Midwestern summer night, and when I turned to face her, she looked up
at me with an expression I hadn’t seen before.  Something longing, curious
and soft.  But there was also something dark in her gaze.  

"What I want to say is this," Rose continued.  "I think I want you to kiss
me."

I was completely taken by surprise.  Even though I had suspected she wanted
this to happen, I hadn’t expected this kind of boldness, at least not this
soon.  But the light against her freckled cheek, the lamp reflected in her
eyes, and the gently tilt of her neck made the decision easy.  I kissed her.

I had intended to make the kiss friendly, compliant, but Rose would have
nothing of that.  She pulled me into her and placed her tongue against my
lips, then moved it past my teeth, and there we were:  French kissing beneath
a street lamp.  

The sensation was beyond nice.  It was marvelous, involved, committed to
something promising, and though I had not idea what that something was, I
gave into to the warmth.  We kissed for a good few minutes.  A car driving
toward the viaduct beeped its approval as it drove by.  And by the time the
kiss was over, everything had changed.

***


The relationship developed naturally.  Within a month, Rose told she thought
she was falling in love.  I felt the same way.  Our intimacy had grown
slowly, purposely, and though we still had not progressed into a full
expression of our desires, we had certainly made each understand that this
relationship was traveling down that path.  We had not explored one another
much beyond some groping in the dark in our cars, constant passionate kissing
and snuggling every chance we got.  I had no way of knowing then what was
smoldering inside of us, what would eventually break through the surface of
our longing.  We took our time, trusting our patience, trusting our
relationship.  And it was worth it.

We talked and talked.  And more than once, our talk drifted into the sexual
arena.  We were happy to discuss our experiences – she was a virgin, I was
not; neither of us were that well-versed in the ways of sex – and we found a
way to lean into the probable.  

The first night we had sex came out of the blue.  Sitting in the front seat
of her car in a park, we talked and kissed, hugged and talked, kissed and
groped.  Finally, Rose sat forward and flipped on a light.  Then she said, "I
can’t take it anymore," and reached underneath her shirt, unfastened her bra.

She moved around awkwardly until she was able to remove her bra from under
the shirt.  She leaned over me, brushed her breasts against my knee and
placed the bra in her glove compartment.  "There," she said, sittin back
triumphantly, smiling over at me.  

The masochist in me decided to play it cool, to continue talking as if
nothing had happened.  The effect on her was palpable:  her breathing grew
coarse, and when I glanced quickly over at her, I saw that her nipples had
grown impossibly hard.  I made no move to touch her.  Sweet, quiet torture.

Delicious beyond compromise.  

Fifteen minutes passed.  Rose became deliriously uncomfortable, moving
around in her seat beside me, leaning forward on occasion to give me a better
look of her breasts in the crass light of the car.  The circumstance was
clearly driving her crazy.  I loved every minute of it.

Finally, it was too much for her to take.  In one swift, self-conscious
movement, Rose lifted her shirt over her head and dropped in the seat beside
us.  When I pretended not to notice, she said in a gruff, expectant voice,
"Are you going to suck my nipples, or what?"

Enough was enough.  I complied.  

Her nipples were thick and long, hard as pebbles, and when I bit them, she
let out quiet noises, like birds in the trees, tossing her head back.  Her
breasts were beautiful, heavy, large.  I spent the next fifteen minutes
loving nothing else in the universe but them.  And if she would not have told
me later, I would have assumed she came while I nipped and sucked her
breasts.  She writhed.

That night she asked me to finger her to orgasm.  I did.  She was
wonderfully tight, though not tremendously wet.  Her climax was quiet but
forceful.  She laughed at the tale end of it, and I knew that I had pleased
her well.  

It was the beginning of a relationship that would blossom wildly soon
thereafter.


       
El Fin

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