Hands and fingers, legs and lips

Hands and fingers, legs and lips.
And eyes and ears
And mouth and hips.
Hands and fingers, legs and lips,
Legs and lips.

I remember when every first with a new boyfriend was fully explored prior to moving on to the next discovery.

That first kiss took forever in my younger relationships. We’d hint around it, spit out our Juicy Fruit gum in anticipation for it, lean in, almost do it, chicken out and eventually find the courage. When it happened, we’d stay on it for weeks, learning the hows of kissing each other, savoring our breathless wanting.

Second base was an exercise in restraint, too. His hand would tentatively explore my young breasts above my Espirit shirt for hours, and then under my shirt the next day, and then finally, maybe if we were really serious, under the bra I’d secretly purchased at TJ Maxx when my mother wasn’t watching. All the while my body would lean into that hand, silently willing him to take my pert nipple between his fingers and teeth but lacking the voice to say it.

It was divine frustration that sounds like torture now.

And it is. It really is torture when we’re accustomed to immediate gratification and we know exactly what we want. I haven’t been a virgin for 22 years; I’ve been a greedy girl for 10; and I’ve been a slut for 7. I know what I want. I know when I want it. And I want it now.

Taking things slowly, as I’ve referenced here, has an upside: the excitement of ‘firsts,’ which is often lost in favor of reaching the goal; the gradual learning of each other, figuring out which buttons to push and how hard; and, finally, ensuring that our feelings aren’t strictly based on physical desire, a mistake I’ve often made in the years since my divorce.

I haven’t yet felt his cock inside me but I’ve imagined its invasion from every position. I want it; but I’m not ready for it. I need to flirt with it a bit more.

Instead, I’ve felt his right hand on my ass while his left held my hip. I’ve felt the reddening and the wetness that resulted from his thorough spanking, and the intake of breath from his fingers’ confident exploration.

I’ve felt his thighs under me, against my tummy and the absence of them when I lifted my hips to greet his rhythmic spanks. Hips down again to grind against him. And up again to meet him.

It’s been a slow dance.

It’s been exactly what I need.

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