Grant is tall and has hazel eyes, which when we are alone he embellishes with glasses, but in public he uses contacts. He wears a beard to make me happy, and his hair is unruly and brown. He is the smartest person I’ve ever met, and also one of the most reserved. He holds my hand in public and nuzzles his face into my pillow when he sleeps. He likes to take me to museums, and we watch sci-fi from the 1960s and 70s on a semi-regular basis. He suffers my horrible schedule and obliges my need for human contact.
Some number of weeks ago, I dragged Grant out of the house for a reconstruction of our first date: Indian food from the wrong side of the western river in our fair city—all the really good places are in some other neighborhood, except for the one—followed by wandering through a picturesque park and stopping by a bookstore. I am wearing a full skirt with a long jacket, with some stockings that are entirely more elaborate than necessary. It is a little too cool out for my attire.
The restaurant has a perfect wine list, and we are tottering through the park. We laugh, we make jokes, and as we walk arm in arm our hands explored more than would have comfortable in more revealing light. As we walk down the street and back to my house, the stockings grip the tops of my thighs exactly where my legs slide past each other as I walk. I am wearing red lace panties over the garters that suspend my hosiery. This costume is a secret known to the two of us alone as we stride down the street to my two-story home.
Grant and I arrive at my front door. I let us in. I am delighted that the lights are off and the house is silent: nobody is home but us. I head up the stairs ahead of him. The bend of my waist is mildly exaggerated by the angle; I imagine that the tops of my stockings may be just visible to my partner as he follows me up the incline. At the next hallway, I turn left to the bedroom. He excuses himself to brush his teeth. I debate how much to undress, and I have gotten as far as my skirt by the time he returns. He returns to find me in a black t-shirt, black stockings, a black garter belt, the aforementioned red lace panties, and black boots. Grant laughs and gives me a half-smile. He sits on the bed as I bend over to unzip my footwear. I feel his eyes on my ass before I feel his hand.
“Grant,” I say, raising my head and putting my face in close approximation with his, “What do you mean by that?”
He kisses me and licks my lower lip; he tugs at the hem of my shirt to suggest that I remove it. I comply.
“Margot,” he replies, “I think tonight I would really love to go down on you.”
This is not so rare an occurrence that it requires any kind of fanfare or announcement.
Grant pushes me onto the bed by my shoulders. He lands on top of me, and bites my lip while pulling my hair. His palm is against my skull and the pads of his fingers massage scalp. He pulls my head to one side and kisses and bites my neck and shoulders while traveling south to my breasts. He bites my nipples through my bra, then he pinches and twists them through the thin fabric. My hips press into his chest in response. His attentions linger on my bust. My pussy aches. The smell of his head and chest overwhelm me. I am panting.
He pulls my panties off. His mouth wanders down to my mons. His hands continue to manipulate my breasts. His tongue starts to trace the outline of the union of my labia through the thin, red lace that encases it. I am making guttural, primitive sounds. His mouth traces from my pussy to the top of my stockings: he licks from my thighs to behind my knees and back up again. During this motion, his hands press into my flesh, and in sliding over my skin they remove my inconvenient panties. My hands run through his hair and press his face into my pelvis.
Grant’s tongue glides over my clit while his hands travel back to my breasts to roll my nipples. My thighs internally rotate and my feet flex, my belly tightens and my neck extends. I am making sounds without meaning and my partner echoes them into my body.
My mind is more peacefully blank than it has been in ages. Grant arises from the cleft between my thighs. He is still fully clothed. He pulls his sweater over his head and unbuckles his belt; his clothing is shed in short order. There is no pretense. He picks up my left leg and throws it over his right shoulder; he kisses and licks the arch of my foot through my stocking as his perfectly curved dick pushes into my still-tight cunt.
Grant exhales and groans. He pulls on my hair. He presses his torso into mine. His tongue fills my mouth and he sighs into me. When he approaches orgasm, his mouth starts making words that are clearly divorced from his conscious thought. He begs me to choke him. His neck is in my hand. I avoid the trachea while I gently press the external carotids. His face is red from exertion. My free hand scratches his back. His right hand grips and kneads my ass. My name escapes his mouth as his cock pulsates inside me.
The weight of Grant’s torso as it presses into mine, when he is covered in sweat and exhausted from the work of fucking me, is overwhelming. My face is pressed into his chest hair, I breathe in his scent and run my hands over the expanse of his back. I study the three freckles in his right iris; he returns my gaze and we kiss.
We sleep naked next to each other. His head works onto my pillow in his sleep, his arm is thrown across my hips and his breath is a soft exhale on the nape of my neck. When he sleeps his face is softened, and if I wake before him he wraps his body around mine when I stir. The serenity that the morning offers is the perfect counterpart to our evening before, but even in a more tranquil atmosphere the sentiments that governed our previous activities persists.