The trenchcoat.

April 15, 2011 at 6:00 pm (Sex) ()

I don’t think he asked me to do it. I think it was my own silly notion.

When he parked next to my building, I sashayed over in my strappy heels and long black trenchcoat. He said a distracted hello and then, “Here, can you put this in your pocket?” and handed me a tube of toothpaste.

This was not what I had planned.

I cleared my throat.

He handed me his toothbrush in a travel container.

I said, “Goddamn it, I’m trying to do something here. Look at me.”

He did. I opened the trenchcoat.

He smiled. Now I had his attention. I wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed him, hard; then pulled away, gathered the coat closed with one hand and took his hand with the other to drag him inside.

The door slammed shut, I dropped the coat and dropped to my knees. Men’s pants are so difficult to get into when you’re in a hurry. Belt, button, zipper, then another layer… there.

Lips parted to take him in, hard and ripening against my tongue, dripping sweetness. Tongue rolling and searching for all the best places, the right spots, the one that makes him gasp, the one that makes him draw in his breath through his teeth.

He pulled me up and close; the decadence of being naked against someone fully clothed. His hand went between my legs, a quick stroke as if to check — yes, just as he thought. Where, then, shall we? The floor is fine. I’ve been waiting all night; there’s no time left, the bed is too far away. Now.

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