“Exactly,” Steve replied with confidence.

“But I have ten toes.”

“Yes, my dear, but you only have eight spaces between your toes.”

“Huh?”

Steve put the saucer down on the nightstand and spoke with his characteristic, gentle patience. “On each foot, you have five toes. Agreed? But there are only four spaces: the space between toe #1 and toe #2; the space between toe #2 and toe #3; the space between toe #3 and toe #4; and the space between toe #4 and toe #5.” As he talked about her toes, he was counting on his fingers, and Janet found this to be mildly comical. “Then, on your other foot–”

“Okay, okay. I get it,” she interrupted, with a laugh.

Janet wasn’t always this dense about math (or was it biology?), but she was a little bit distracted at the moment by what she called “hungry pussy syndrome.” Steve had been out of town for a few days. She had been asleep when he’d returned the previous night, and so this morning was their first chance at quality time together. Now, they were both ready to make something special of it. This was why Janet was spread-eagled on the bed, her head ultra-comfortable against her puffiest pillow, her palms face down and her fingers drumming restlessly on the satin sheet. She was enjoying her open-legged nudity, but she was eager to enjoy it more. She separated and wiggled her toes, as a come-on to her attentive husband.

At breakfast, he had confided his latest sweet fantasy. “How would you like it if I decorated the slots between your cute little toes with strawberries, one piece of strawberry at a time, until your pussy was as wet and juicy as the berries?” *How would you like it.* He knew darn well how she would like it–she would like it a lot. Steve knew that Janet’s toes–and especially the sensitive cracks between them–were among her most erogenous places; and, after hearing this proposal, Janet had been so excited that she’d been unable to finish her cereal.

Steve relocated to the foot of the bed with his plate of fruit. There he sat on the mattress, with Janet’s delicate feet within easy reach. Janet purred as Steve promptly inaugurated his erotic variation on the “Little Piggy Went to Market” game by gently manipulating the littlest toe on her right foot, then running his middle finger along the crack between this toe and the next one over. Her body rippled. It was perfectly ticklish, so sensuously titillating. He had always known how to thrill her with these types of subtle sensations. In the midst of feeling the space between her toes tingling, Janet compared this intimate part of her anatomy to the larger juncture farther up, between her legs. And she felt that primary juncture begin to moisten.

The strawberries had been out of the refrigerator since breakfast, so the thin pieces of fruit were just slightly cooler than room temperature. She sighed heavily when Steve placed the first strawberry slice in the space his finger had just been stimulating, between her first two toes. Janet clutched the strawberry with her toes and relished the refreshing tactile experience of the fruit on this warm summer morning.

Before repeating the procedure with the next crack to his right, Steve paused to suck and kiss at toes 2 through 5. Janet squirmed with delight; she was as glad to writhe under the pleasure of these soft marks of affection as she was eager to take more fruit into the tiny crotches between her toes. She luxuriated in the realization that she would, sooner or later, have it all. She felt a drip of nectar dribble out of her feminine lips and run down into the crack of her wriggling ass.

When she received strawberry slice #2 into delicate place #2, Janet marveled that she actually had so many little cracks down there, so many narrow places where Steve could drive her wild with strawberries and fingers and kisses.

A few minutes later, as he filled crack #3 with the cool fruit, all Janet could think about was how Steve’s warm cock was going to feel as it slid into her. The toes on her left foot fluttered lasciviously while those on her right continued to clasp the strawberries, urgently symbolizing her burgeoning desire to clasp Steve’s hardness in her slick, essential nexus.

By the time he was situating the fourth piece of strawberry between the last two toes on her right foot, Janet was positively oozing girl-juice and making a small, fragrant wet spot on the sheets. She had long since retracted her arms from their original sprawling position; now her right hand teased her clit, while the fingers of her left stroked just inside her swelling lips.

When Steve gave her right foot a brief farewell tickle along the sole, Janet knew that she’d had enough anticipation. “Steve!” she groaned. “Oh, wow, *Steve*. Can you come up here now, honey?”

“Already?”

“Oh, fuck, yes,” Janet affirmed. “I’m so wet I’m making a puddle. Come up here and fuck me, Steve.”

“But we still have four strawberry slices left,” he said in mock protest.

“Fuck the strawberries,” Janet laughed. In a delicious frenzy, she pounded on the mattress with both her legs. The jewels of fruit that had been making love to her foot flew orgasmically across the bedroom.

“Well, make up your mind, sweetheart,” Steve joked. “Do you want me to fuck *you*, or do you want me to fuck the strawberries?”

By way of reply, Janet leaned forward just far enough to grab her waggish lover by the elbow and pull him down on top of her.

It was her guess that his prick had never found her cunt quite this wet before. And, from the moment she slipped him in, she felt herself fucking him rhythmically, as if she were a machine—a soft, giggling machine. A machine that smelled like a woman about to melt from her own heat.

She didn’t stop squeezing him and bouncing under him until her giggles finally morphed into a long, ecstatic scream. She flattened herself against the mattress, her arms once again flung toward the headboard. She couldn’t remember the last time she had come with such intensity.

Her eyes were closed as Steve’s orgasm tickled through her. He clutched her ass with passionate dedication as his hips ground every iota of pleasure out of the situation.

For a minute they were still, and then she felt his cock slip from her lazy grip and his weight leave her body. She delayed in opening her eyes, because she was still floating on the buoyant waters of afterglow. Suddenly his voice was in her ear.

“I’ll save the rest of the strawberries for dessert tonight.”

Another nice shudder ran through Janet, as she reflected on the fact that she and Steve never ate dessert. Clearly, whatever after-dinner treat he had in mind was not going to happen in the dining room.

This piece was previously published online at Tit-Elation in September, 2006.

At night, we are fuckers.

In the morning, our passion is quiet, beautiful, and intense. We are lovers.

Though it’s almost too corny to be credible, we fell in love in Paris. Our first kiss was in front of the Eiffel Tower, for crying out loud. Perhaps this is why we’ve done our best to make the apartment resemble a little corner of France, within the great city of Cleveland, Ohio. When no one is looking, we refer to the immediate neighborhood as the arrondissement. The bookshelves are sprinkled with Balzac and Asterix. Unassuming Rhône wines haunt the kitchen counter, echoing the mood of the lazy still life that freshens the living room with flowers and peaches.

The bed in which we share love each morning sports Continental linens, which we launder in lavender-scented detergent. The coffee whose aroma permeates our morning atmosphere is, bien sûr, a French Roast. Amazingly, there is an authentic patisserie within walking distance, and I venture there for croissants each day while Lisa bathes. As I return with the croissants she emerges, smelling like olive-oil soap in particular and delicious little French hotels in general. If there should happen to be a dusting of Great Lakes snow on the topmost pastry, I choose to imagine that it transubstantiates into confectioner’s sugar as soon as the croissants and I enter Lisa’s warm sphere of influence.

We always awake hungry for each other, but also just plain hungry. We breakfast from a rustic Provençal tray–at which true Parisian sophisticates would turn up their noses, but whose sunny yellow cheers us on winter days. Keeping the flaky crumbs out of the linens has long since been declared, by mutual assent, a lost cause. By now, I boast a prodigious adroitness with our handheld vacuum cleaner.

After croissants and coffee, our respective flesh mingles among the crisp linens. The scents of our bodies bond with the coffee and bakery aromas. In the mornings, it is customary for me to begin by stroking Lisa’s ass. It is firm and tastefully lewd like the peaches in the still life. She coos and wiggles, communicating the desire for my caress along its crack. I, of course, fulfill this desire toute suite. I alternate between pleasuring her ass and petting her hair, her back, and her thighs, watching her tremble as she enjoys anticipating my return to her bottom. She folds her arms between her head and the pillow, relishing the passivity of being touched, and letting her ecstasy express itself through her legs only. Her muscular limbs kick with exuberant bliss; they squeeze together and release, and her toes curl and flex.

When I sample the feminine confection between Lisa’s thighs, I feel as if I’m having dessert. Dessert with breakfast, luxury of luxuries! And when I coax her nectar down, it tastes as sweet to me as marmalade. She takes hold of my baguette, where a drop of crème has already appeared. (Yes, we indulge such transatlantic metaphors, in the poetic privacy of our bedroom. I warned you that we were corny.)

Where her cunt tastes like sweets, her mouth tastes like love. Our tongues communicate wordlessly, nurturing each other with tactile expressions of affection. I want to lick and taste every inch of her, not in the raunchy way I devour her at night, but like a baby rabbit nibbling at the succulent vegetation that surrounds it. “You’re my bowl of salad,” I sometimes whisper reverently in her ear, between nibbles. I cup the satisfying roundness of her derrière, a perfect bowl, in fact, of sensuality.

And yet, no bowl bounds my conception of Lisa. She is a horizonless landscape of delicious, sustaining beauty, from the buttery freshness of her little nose to the sensitive nook under each arm to the shiny daintiness of her toenails. I want to frolic atop her, squirm into her, spurt all over her. She is a picnic in the park and the softball game afterwards, a dip in the lake and a roll in the mud . . . the summer day that only wanes so that it may enchant you again as a summer evening. I want to be totally embraced by her love, her acceptance, her cunt, her smile. I want to pet, tickle, squeeze, lick and ride her till our nerves melt together into soup. I want to see her nipples float on our sea of ecstasy and her lips mouth “I love you” from within the surf.

As we make love, I imagine that we are in Paris. That there is a bidet in our bathroom. That people are speaking French on the sidewalk below. That around the corner is the little pharmacy where I had to resort to an earthy pantomime to indicate that I required a box of condoms. Where the pharmacist, a handsome woman of about 35 with dark, humorous eyes, smiled at me when I paid for them.

“Tell me about the pharmacienne,” Lisa requested our last night in Paris, just as I was penetrating her slick hole with bedtime vigor. “Fuck me and tell me how she looked at you.” Lisa got off on the idea that the druggist had watched me as if she wanted to personally administer the dose of condoms she had provided. She still asks to hear about it some nights, three years later.

On other nights, she wants to know all about the pretty Swiss tourist across the aisle on the bus. The one that I’d noticed, out of the corner of my eye, subtly stroking her skirt while she adored a Degas nude in a gallery at the Musée d’Orsay. Lisa likes to have me relate how this art lover delicately, but deliberately, flashed her blonde sex at me as our bus bumped along the boulevard, her smirking gaze fixed on my face. As our own pleasure bus bounces lustily on the midnight mattress, Lisa and I give each other’s asses friendly slaps to punctuate my thrusts, and I talk to her in broken, abrupt sentences about the tourist who winked at me with her cunt.

But I digress.

The French Roast has heightened all my sensitivities. My cock tingles for Lisa’s yawning love-hole, and my cerebral synapses fire like good old American popcorn at the erotic implications of her every sensuous motion. In the faux-French Cleveland morning, the walls of Lisa’s cunt absorb each of my strokes so tenderly, yet with such solidity. I feel totally supported by her intimate embrace down there, just as I feel completely supported by Lisa in every aspect of our life. Her cunt understands my cock the way her mind understands my own and her emotions respond with such sensitivity to my innermost needs. Pulsating inside her, I feel her so tangibly as the source of all my small and large joys.

We fell in love in Paris, but I had only an inkling of what I was falling in love with. I fell in love with her laughter and came to know her kindness. I fell in love with her acuteness and came to know her wisdom. I fell in love with her sexy ass and came to know the ineffable rapture of being clasped every morning in her transcendent feminine grip.

Ask me to describe Lisa’s face, and I cannot. I can no longer see her features discretely as eyes, mouth, nose, chin . . . all I see is the light, the personality, the embodiment of a compassionate intelligence that is my sun and my soil. I can describe Lisa no better than I can describe the sensation of water quenching my thirst, or the flavor of fresh air in my lungs. I might as well try to describe what it feels like to be a living being.

In Paris, she was pretty as a picture. Now, I rarely see her in two dimensions. Still, there are those moments when I walk into the bedroom and observe a gorgeous creature splayed for me, waiting to be touched, waiting to have her oils made to flow, waiting to absorb me and acquire me once again . . . and I frame Lisa in my mind like a luscious painting. A canvas, magically enough, that I can step inside.

Orgasm is inextricably associated with the aromas of coffee and pastry and lavender. In the morning, we always come slowly, writhing in downtempo sensuality, savoring our shuddering moments in the unlocalizable places where ecstasy dances with love. We are lovers. We are lovers. We are lovers this morning.

This piece originally appeared in Alison Tyler’s “A is for Amour Anthology”

As morning consciousness pushed out the haze of sleep, I remembered how our evening had begun. “Are you busy?” she had called to me from the bed, while I made some notes at the neat little hotel-room desk. “Because I was hoping you might come over here and kiss all the invisible hairs on my bottom. I’m situated just right, see?” Her eyes had lit up her otherwise impassive face as she gracefully flipped the back hem of her short, silk dressing gown to reveal the soft curves of her naked cheeks. They were radiant with anticipated delight. I had approached her and watched her derrière wriggle in a brief, involuntary spasm of pleasure. Her slight lime underpants, which she had peeled down silently while I had been absorbed in my work, nestled politely on the carpet at the foot of the bed. A minute later, I was feasting on her, watching the flesh of her hills drink every squeeze, every playful little slap, every tiny kiss. I saw her roll into each titillation of our bedside feather up and down the sensuous crack. When she was as hungry as she could get, she had turned herself over to pull me in between her thighs, and at last I had entered her sexual grand junction.

Afterwards, I had slept very well.

“Good morning,” I said softly. I gave her irresistible nose a quick kiss and her boldly-available crotch a quick grab. “Kiss my juncture,” she whispered in my ear. I knelt down, stretched the gusset to one side, and cheerfully complied.

With my erection starting to protrude from my pajamas, I hustled over to the luggage stand. I produced a long, soft silk scarf from the suitcase, and I held it up to show her. “It still smells like you from yesterday afternoon,” I observed with a grin.

She put her book down and unzipped her dress. She was bra-less, and when we met at the bed she wore only her hat and the already-moistening panties. As I removed my pajama bottoms and sat, she leaned over to kiss the head of my stiffness before settling herself, face down, across my lap.

Inch by inch I eased the panties off her cheeks, until she lay bare-assed over my thighs. Her bottom, now just clearing the delicate fabric, smiled up at me, its feminine roundness winking lustfully. I admired the dimpled cheeks for a moment before touching. Then, like the night before, I massaged the inviting globes. She writhed contentedly and further moistened the crotch of the underwear which, in its half-removed state, pressed against her.

Now I slowly threaded the scarf between her bottom and the panties, so that it became intimate with her slit. From there, we guided the silk together along her warm, sensuous belly. “It’s like a printer ribbon,” I whispered, and we laughed. When we had finished situating the scarf beneath her, she held the end that emerged from between her breasts, and I held the end that tickled the inner undersides of her buttocks. With her free hand, she claimed my straining member.

Ever so gently, we rocked into a peaceful “tug of war,” so that the silk caressed her in as many places as possible. I let her set the pace, which quickened as her stimulation blossomed into frantic arousal. Finally, she gripped the scarf unequivocally with her groin muscles and screamed a giggling, incoherent orgasmic song. Her ass cheeks were becomingly flushed, and it was just as I noticed this that my tension throbbed definitively against her fingers and I spurted onto her flank.

“And you thought it was silly of me to pack a scarf for a trip to Italy,” I murmured.

this piece was originally published in Oysters & Chocolate, 2006

“Now you know them all,” she whispered one night, around the time of our first anniversary. She had, on this occasion, guided my hand to the nape of her neck, solicited about one second’s worth of tickling from me, and then ended the exquisite moment with a lusciously-mouthed “Perfect. Stop now.” As always, she had a precise self-awareness regarding how much was exactly enough.

When she told me I knew them all, I laughed. “Now that I know them all, what do I do?”

“Use them,” she replied. And she proceeded to map out what she had in mind. I went hard just listening, and the rest of that evening went down in history.

Since that night, our foreplay has almost always consisted of a brief, ticklish tour of Vivian’s body. A couple of minutes of such gentle stimulation, and she is wet and hungry, wiggling under me as if her flesh were still being titillated. It would never have occurred to me to inaugurate sex with a memorized tickle checklist, but now I can’t imagine doing without it.

Though Vivian has specified the locations, the order in which my fingers visit her sweet spots is a decision that rests, as it were, in my hands. She loves the element of unpredictability, of not knowing whether the next instantaneous, whispering touch will appear behind her ear, two-thirds of the way down the crack of her ass, or at the geographic center of the sole of her right foot.

Each tickle lasts just long enough for her to gasp with surprise, giggle with joy, and involuntarily retract the relevant body part away from my finger–because an instant of it is all she needs. I wait a few seconds in the wake of each spasm before resurfacing elsewhere–at the lips of her cunt, perhaps, or the crook of her elbow.

By the time she has been fed her tickle-moments at six or seven locations, Vivian’s giggles have become a constant, low idle of delight. She knows which places remain on the list, and she oozes nectar as the end of the previous tickle blends with anticipation of the next.

Deep in the furrow between those last two toes. Two inches from her alluring navel, in the direction of her left flank. A particular locus that is almost, but not quite, at the nadir of her underarm. Each touch is as soft as I can manage. And though each is almost over before it has begun, the effect on Vivian is momentous.

When we have counted ten tickles, she is spread like a quivering manifestation of erotic energy. She clutches my wrists, opening herself completely to me and inviting me to dance with her unfolded, sensitive body. My erection bobs to and fro like a promotional searchlight–which is appropriate since Vivian is, in effect, inviting me to a grand opening.

***
Last Thursday night I was plunged deep inside her, and we were squirming as one. Neither of us could have been more than a minute or two away from orgasm. Vivian had been primed with the usual assortment of tickles–or so I thought. Suddenly, she opened her eyes.

“I just realized you forgot one,” she said softly.

“What?”

“You only tickled me nine places,” she explained.

“Oh.” I thought about this. “Are you going to tell me which one I missed, or do I have to guess?”

She smiled. “I’ll give you a hint.” And she slipped out from underneath me, flipped over on her belly, and directed my hand to a spot halfway down the back of her thigh, between ass and knee.

“Ahh,” she informed me as I stimulated the designated area of flesh. “Now my life is–” she interrupted herself with a giggle– “complete.”

Soon her delicious love hole beckoned me back, and before I knew it we were joined again, and once more en route to explosions of passion. I seemed to feel, not ten, but ten thousand points of ticklish bliss resonating within her, dissolving around me in an ocean of laughter and pleasure that carried us together into rhythmic abandon.

***
“How did *you* originally find your tickle spots?” I asked her one evening.

“Self-exploration,” she said matter-of-factly. “When I was single, you know. I made quite a study of self-pleasure.”

“Of course. But you were able to tickle *yourself*? That’s an unusual skill.”

“I have many unusual skills,” said Vivian. She proceeded to demonstrate one of them, one that I’d frequently complimented her for. Let’s just say it’s something special she does for me with her tongue.

“For my birthday,” I said a later, “I’d love to watch you tickle yourself a little, like you used to when you were masturb–er, when you were exploring.”

“Why wait till your birthday?” she replied, and another night went down in history. I’ll never forget the peculiar, wonderful experience of seeing Vivian make herself wriggle and giggle, priming her body and senses just like I did, until she pulled me toward her to enjoy the erotic state she’d tickled herself into.

***
Ten is a nice round number, and any proponent of the metric system will praise it to no end. But I have a secret ambition of adding to Vivian’s checklist. So, when my fingers happen to casually brush her body here and there in the course of lovemaking, cuddling, or incidental daily contact, I keep myself alert to the possibility that her face will flush slightly or her throat will resonate with a hint of laughter, signaling the possible discovery of an eleventh tickle venue. It could be anywhere on her soft, sensuous body. I know I’ll enjoy finding it, even if it takes years. I’m thinking of applying for a grant.

I’m delighted to report that Millicent and I see each other quite often. But by the time it crosses my mind that she still owes me the rundown on this incident (among others), we’re always too busy living in the moment for me to interrupt with sentimental reminiscences and pump her for backstories. Not that there isn’t usually some pumping going on — but that’s different.

It had been a quiet Saturday night at home for me, and I was looking forward to hitting the sack and perhaps indulging the autoeroticism habit before nodding off. First choice for me under the covers is always to be part of a dynamic duo; but I don’t mind admitting that I like masturbation, too. And anyway, it happened to be the best proposition I’d had that night.

I wasn’t particularly surprised to hear the knock on the door. I live near the strip of groovy bars, and my friends — some of whom are a little wild — know that I am usually a congenial host, even to spontaneous, inebriated guests, and that if I really don’t want to be bothered, I won’t answer. I had learned, though, to ascertain who it was before opening up. There are some people whom I consider friends by daylight but do not wish to entertain in the wee hours of the morning.

“Hi. Who is it?” I asked in my most noncommittal, to-host-or-not-to-host tone.

“It’s Millicent,” a voice hissed back in a courteous, don’t-disturb-the-neighbors sort of whisper.

Millicent! This was the best thing that had happened in weeks.

“Can I come in? I don’t have any pants on.” And then she laughed, just loud enough for me to hear.

I laughed, too.

“Now Millicent, you know you don’t have to pretend to be half-undressed to gain entry to any apartment of mine. You’re always welcome, even fully clothed.”

“I’m not kidding, Stewart.”

“What? No pants?”

“No pants.” She laughed again. “Why don’t you open the door and see for yourself?”

Millicent and I were the kind of pair who could turn almost anything into a game. “You can’t fool me so easily,” I reasoned. “You’re wearing a skirt, of course.”

“Nope.” More giggles. Millicent was obviously enjoying this as much as I was, so I decided to drag it out.

“A dress?”

“No.”

“Shorts?”

“Nuh-uh.”

“A swimsuit? A skort? Culottes?” My guesses were getting more far-fetched. I wasn’t even sure what culottes were.

“None of the above,” she tittered. Her laughter was as beautiful as it was contagious. She didn’t even sound drunk.

“Commencement robes? A sari? A paisley dressing-gown?”

“No, no, and no again.”

“A kilt? A leotard? One of those big ol’ Native American blankets?”

Now she was laughing too hard to say “No,” but it was clear that I was still flunking out.

“Car-repair coveralls? Scuba gear?”

“No, Stewart. I’m completely bare-assed.”

“Oh! Well, why didn’t you say so.” I opened the door, beaming at her. Millicent scurried in, naked from the waist down and elfin from the neck up, and gave me a quick peck on the cheek.

She stood next to me for an instant, catching her breath after all the laughing. Then, without standing on ceremony, she zipped past me and headed down the hall that led to my bathroom. I noticed how well her long-sleeved coral-pink blouse hugged the petite, elegant contours of her back. Its smoothness led my eyes down to Millicent’s waist, where the silk signed off and creamy, bare flesh took over. I watched the neat little globes of her bottom jiggle purposefully as she receded. Too soon, the dreamy ass wished me au revoir as its owner took a sharp right turn into the john.

One muffled flush later, Millicent re-appeared. On this return trip, I was able to relish a view of her dark, fuzzy nexus, where her sleek legs dovetailed so perfectly. Soon she was with me again.

“That was a fun guessing-game,” Millicent said, touching my elbow lightly.

“I enjoyed it, too.” I paused before continuing. “I also enjoyed watching you move down that hallway. You have a very nice ass, my dear.”

Millicent smiled a mixture of gratitude and mischief. “Likewise, I presume.” She pivoted her head from side to side, as if trying to get a peek around at the back of my jeans.

“But even better than admiring your bottom as it travels down my hallway is having you back at this end of the corridor,” I admitted, taking her hand. “I guess I’ve been a little lonely tonight.” It was funny — I hadn’t realized I’d been lonely until I felt the contrast of being with her.

“I feel lonely, too, in a way, being the only one who’s half-undressed around here,” she noted.

I had hoped things might go in this direction.

“No problem,” I said eagerly. “I can take my pants and underwear off, if you like. In fact, based on past experience, I think I can even get completely naked without too much trouble.”

“Let’s try just naked from the waist down, for now,” she replied. “My friends and family are always complaining that I like to do things by half-measures, after all.” I had heard this complaint, and I knew that dear Millicent’s life was indeed a landscape of semi-abandoned initiatives. She was the first to admit it, and I admired her for being able to poke fun at herself.

“Whatever you wish,” I said gallantly, very glad to be assuming the role of host for this particular late-night guest. “But before I shed half my clothes, Little Miss Half-Measures, can I get you half a glass of wine perhaps, or half a cup of coffee?”

“Yes to the wine,” she said. “I’ll have two half-glasses. But why don’t you take the jeans and shorts off first. I might get bored watching you mess around with the corkscrew, unless I have something else to look at.”

So there we stood in the kitchen a minute later, my dick flapping for Millicent’s entertainment while I wrestled with the wine bottle. She was laughing at the spectacle I provided, but in a manner that flattered me. I could tell I was making her horny. When she stood up to claim her double-half-glass of wine, she gave me a lewd little slap on the butt, and I noticed a minor wet spot on the chair she’d been occupying.

By the time we’d made our way to the living room couch, I had matched Millicent’s wet spot with a classic Saturday-night hard-on. We sat side by side and knee to knee, and I could smell her arousal over the bouquet of the merlot. I reached around and under to fondle her backside. When she moaned appealingly, I decided to leave my hand there. This allowed me to punctuate our chatter and giggles with light, sensuous squeezes, and to send the occasional, lascivious finger into her hind crack.

In a little while, Millicent took my wine glass from me and set it on the table. She then directed my free hand straight into her crotch and carefully guided it into the caresses she craved. All my fingers were now occupied on Millicent’s person — squeezing ass cheeks, tickling butt-crack, tracing paths of pleasure upon and within moist pussy-lips — and my cock began to twitch for attention. Millicent responded promptly, abandoning her own wine and initiating the tenderest strokes my member had ever felt. I rewarded her with my best manly moans.

“You know,” she breathed, “I’d kind of like to feel you all the way inside me, right now.”

“Kind of?” I asked.

“Okay, not ‘kind of,’” Millicent confessed. “Absolutely and totally and completely.”

And with that, she hopped up, turned her coral-lovely back to me, and let her sweet ass hover briefly over my lap. Then she reached backward, grabbed my thighs for support, and gently lowered herself onto the waiting, throbbing pleasure-stick. My, she was juicy. It was hard to avoid coming immediately as she slid down, letting her soft cunt ingest me as far as I could go. And when I could go no further, she began pounding my upper thighs with her bottom cheeks, dancing wildly to the beat of her inner joys.

I reached around to stroke her breasts, teasing the nipples that poked at me through the silk. I nibbled soft kisses onto the back of her neck as we bounced. I felt my loins and hers melt into a churning, boiling mother lode of ecstasy. The roaring bliss engulfed us both until we pulsated as one and gave in to the seething sensations that rushed over, around and through my buried member and the dripping, sensuous cunt that clasped it. It was quite possibly the best orgasm I’d ever had. And, judging from Millicent’s urgent, lyrical cries, it must have been a pretty special moment for her as well.

Ripple after ripple of pleasure tickled through us as we held the pose. Finally, our conjoined organs were still, and we rested gently in a motionless hug.

“So much for half-measures, darling,” I murmured into Millicent’s fragrant hair.