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From: OscarPaco@aol.com
Subject: Anniversary (m,f)
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The following erotic short is intended for mature audiences, which means:  if
you are younger than eighteen years of age, do not read further.




Anniversary


     "Don't move," I say, and she doesn't.  
     She stops, her glorious back to me, her naked arms stretched out before
her, touching the fabric of shirts in the closet.  We have just finished
making love, long and slow, quietly celebratory.  I sit on the futon watching
her, taking in her delicious body:  her blonde hair flowing over strong and
slender shoulders, her back bookeended by rows of gentle ribs, the long
waist, the gentle slope of her hips, supple and slight cheeks of her ass, her
sex still glistening from our lovemaking,  strawberry blonde wisps of pubic
hair catching the morning light from the window, those muscular thin thighs,
the long calves and delicate ankles, the high arches of her feet, the toes
that I have kissed and tickled and sucked just fifteen minutes ago.  I drink
her entire body with lascivious eyes and am still thirsty.  Fourteen years
and I am still indescribably thirsty for this beautiful woman.
     I rise from the futon slowly, deliberately, never taking my eyes from
her, and crouch behind her, reacing my tongue out to touch the subtle arcs of
flesh descending from her tailbone.  She moans with pleasure, places each
hand on the closet door, making a cross of her body; she tilts her head back
and moans again, drawing me in.  I trace the insides of her legs from knee to
ankle, and back, then follow the line to her center.  She takes a slight step
to steady herself, spreading her legs, inviting me.  I lean forward until my
naked chest rubs against her ass, draw my hands around the front of her body,
bring my fingers together in the moist tangle of her pubic hair:  so
plentiful and so delightful.  I kiss the small of her back, run my tongue
over the small rise of her arching back. 
     I press my hands over her stomach, knowing the sensation will please
her; I press my chest more firmly into her ass, my own stomach against the
backs of her legs.  I stretch and trace the front of her body, rib by rib,
until I reach her breasts.  Gently as a whisper, my fingertips follow the
outline of each breast.  The November air is chilly -- I can feel the goose
flesh -- but she does not move to cover her skin.  Her nipples are hard as
berries, jutting out hungrily; I pinch them, tug them outward, feel them
against the palms of my hands.  And it is this finally that sends her over
the ledge:  her right hand drops to her sex, and within seconds, her fingers
are caressing her clitoris.  Slowly at first, then steadily, rhythmically,
purposefully.
      With my hands still cupping her breasts, I lean down slightly, kiss
both ass cheeks, then place my tongue against her tailbone, testing.  She
moans again and arches her back a little more, picks up the pace of her
circling fingers, her muscles tensing, focused on release.  My tongue follows
the curves of her ass, then probes inward, touches her anus.  She lets out a
groan, letting me know my tongue feels like velvet, inviting me in further.
 I search liberally, push the tip of my tongue against the aster, taste the
delectable mixture of sweat and sex and need; I push into her and hear
another groan.  Her fingers are moving rapidly now, and I can feel her entire
body tightening, preparing for the waves, focused entirely, waiting for the
tide of orgasm.  And it will arrive quickly, completely without fanfare,
simple and intense as our marriage.
     When she comes, at last, she is quiet, and her body jerks and twitches.
 She does not lose her balance, and she catches her breath.  I pinch each
nipple as the orgasm starts, pull on her breasts gently, and push my tongue
into her ass.  She clutches me.  She lets out a low gasp, opens her mouth,
pokes out her own tongue, and with heavy breath, she lets go completely.  
      Finally, she releases her hand from her vagina and grabs hold of the
closet door to regain a steadier balance.  When the waves subside, she falls
gently backward, pushing our bodies onto the futon.  She rests the weight of
her body on me, her back on my chest, her hair cascading over my face.  I hug
her body against me, I want to pull her into me, to swallow her form whole.  
      And when our smiles turn slowly to laughter, our glee is complete, our
happiness total, our celebration just begun.


The Beginning
  
     








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